Just the Two of Us, Against the World
by koneko-desu
Summary: Fix-it fic for His Last Vow. How my inner Johnlock fangirl wanted things to end. John decides he simply cannot forgive Mary and decides on divorce instead. At the same time, an eavesdropped conversation on the Holmes brothers reveals some surprising information to John about his best friend.
1. Chapter 1: Decisions

**Author's note:**

Whoa...this took way too long. So, in my headcanon, after Mary shot Sherlock and her secret was revealed to John, I think John probably moved back into 221B until he and her met again during the Christmas with the Holmes' family scene. You can see this as a continuation of "Back to Baker Street", the two kind of follow each other time line wise, but it doesn't have to be.

I guess this is kind of what the Johnlock fangirl in me desires had happened instead of John forgiving and going back to Mary.

I tried really, really, really hard not to make them too out of character (at least for chapters 1-3), but it ended up with John and Sherlock dancing around (took me 30 pages to get them to a confession T_T).

As for time line, I used John's official blog as a guide;  
>Wedding - August<br>Beginning of His Last Vow and Sherlock getting shot - September  
>Beginning of this story - November<p>

**Chapter 1 warnings:**  
>Not-so-nice things about Mary, divorce, Johnlock, long-windedness, thickheaded characters, overuse of adjectives, long paragraphs crappy titles.<p>

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><p><strong>DECISIONS<strong>

The cool November air breezed through the room, fluttering some of the loose papers that laid about, but it barely seemed to faze the man who sat at the desk, staring blankly at the open laptop in front of him. He couldn't believe it, just over four months after his wedding he was sitting here looking into divorce proceedings.

It had about three months since that nightmarish night when he had found Sherlock lying in the office of Magnussen, hole in his chest and near death's door. Not even a week later his happy, if somewhat dull, home life had been mercilessly shattered. Mary's secret past life had been brought to light and she had given him that blasted USB, the USB that seemed to have the power to make or break his entire life. John had kept it with him wherever he went for weeks. He yearned to read what was on it, but at the same time he feared it. He didn't want to know. If he didn't read it, he could keep his illusions, keep imagining, keep believing that whatever Mary did hadn't been as bad as she had made it sound.

After Sherlock had been released from the hospital after his bullet wound finally healed enough for him to move around with relative ease, John had decided to move back to Baker Street with the detective. He needed to get out of his suburban house, away from Mary, away from all the memories of their happy times together. He needed to think clearly, keep rational and map out all his options. On top of that, he needed to be with Sherlock and make sure the man stayed on his meds and took care of his health. John never wanted to find the man back in a drug den, high under influence ever again.

Initially, Sherlock had kept mostly silent in regards to John's personal problems. He didn't attempt to pry and kept himself busy with his experiments since Lestrade was keeping him away from cases until he had fully recovered. Several times John had started to ask him for his opinion about what he should do. He knew Sherlock with his coldly calculating mind would be able to look through all of the emotional baggage that hindered something like this and find a rational, logical solution with ease, but each time he had snapped his mouth shut at the last minute, feeling guilty about burdening the man with more troubles relating to Mary. Sherlock had already put up with enough, this was John's problem now.

Once in awhile Sherlock would offhandedly allude to Mary, reminding him of some joke she had made, or some fun times they had shared together, and John knew it was Sherlock's attempt to encourage him to forgive her. But John couldn't shake the image of Sherlock on the floor that night, gasping for air, Sherlock in the ambulance, his heart giving out, Sherlock in the hospital, eerily still. He remembered all too well the fear that gripped his heart when the doctor had informed him that Sherlock had flat lined on the operation table, the grief that engulfed him when he thought he had lost his best friend again, and his anger at Mary, at the woman who had helped him through it all the last time but then so willingly put a bullet into the chest of his best friend. Sherlock may be convinced she didn't aim to kill, but John was having a hard time believing it given that Sherlock had, in fact, died. How she could still even look Sherlock in the eyes after what she had done John really didn't know, but for some reason it angered him and even seeing her in the same room with Sherlock had brought about a protectiveness in John towards Sherlock that even surprised himself.

He never considered Sherlock as someone who needed protection. The man was always so self-assured, he always had a plan, an ace up his sleeve, some trick to get out of even the most hopeless situations, but this time, this time John had realized just how human Sherlock really was. He was flesh and blood, he could bleed, he felt pain, his heart was not made of stone but of the same hot blood that ran through all humans. When he had pressed his hands over the bullet wound in an attempt to staunch the blood pouring out the warmth of the liquid seemed to almost burn him. This was the life of the man who meant the most in the world to him, spilling through his fingers, slipping away. He could still feel that warmth sometimes, in his nightmares he would sometimes look down and see the dark red staining his hands as anguish overcame him.

No. He needed to make a decision. He loved Mary. But not the real Mary it seems. Heck, he didn't even know her real name. He loved the illusion that was Mary. And while he's not willing to check through her records to see exactly what kind of person he had made a vow to love and protect until death does them apart, he was not willing to spend the rest of his life with an illusion. He didn't know if she was an assassin, some free lance killer, or some secret agent for a government somewhere, but she had been willing to put the life of the one man he cared about more than any others in danger, to protect herself, her secret. She can twist it all she wants as having done it for John, but John would never wish for harm to come to Sherlock. Never. That alone should be enough for John to make a decision. If she had loved John and trusted him as she claims, then she should have come clean. She should have told him everything before any of this happened. The only reason that Magnussen was even capable of blackmailing her was because she had secrets to be kept. Sherlock could have helped her, she knew he could, but instead, she had been afraid that Sherlock would reveal her secrets to John. Her distrust in John's ability to continue loving her because of her past dictated her actions of the present. Whatever she had been, it is clearly not simply part of her past. It is still very much a part of her present.

The short haired man clenched his jaws and refocused on the computer screen. He scrolled through the UK government's website, looking up the procedures he needed to go through to file for divorce. Apparently it seems, a divorce can only be applied for after a year of marriage. Blasted. An annulment can be applied for at any time, but John didn't have the necessary grounds for an annulment. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. Who was he kidding. He had every grounds for an annulment. His wife had lied to him about everything, he didn't know who he was getting married to. But to apply for an annulment on those grounds would mean that Mary's past would be thoroughly investigated, and that wasn't something John wanted. No. He'll wait out the year then apply for a divorce. He doubt Mary will put up much of a fight against it. And the child...John paused. What about the child? Their child? Will they have shared custody? Or should he apply for full custody? Mary was the mother, but John grimaced thinking about HIS child being brought up by a killer. However, from what he's seen, he had no doubt Mary would love the child and care for it as any loving mother would. He had no reason to fear that the child will be in any danger under Mary's custody. He sighed. He'll deal with that when the time comes, right now he simply didn't have the energy to worry about so much. Besides, many children grow up with divorced parents and turn out fine, he can't force himself to sleep in the same bed as a killer in the hopes of maintaining an illusion of a happy family for his child.

John was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't notice the soft footsteps that had snuck up behind him. Suddenly, he felt the presence of another person leaning over his shoulder and he gave a start, almost smashing his head against the other person in his haste to look over. Sherlock's pensive face was right over his shoulder, staring at his screen and glancing over the contents. The man was still in his dressing gown, barefoot and looking like he had just gotten out of bed. Quickly John minimized the window he had open although he knew Sherlock had seen everything. He forced himself to smile as he turned halfway in his chair to look up as the other man straightened up.

"Good morning. Did you eat? I left some toast for you."

Sherlock met his eyes but remained silent, his expression showing no hint of merriment.

"John, you shouldn't."

John decided to play dumb.

"Oh come on, if I didn't cook you know you'd starve in this place."

Sherlock didn't rise to his bait. Instead he pressed his mouth into a thin line, glancing between John and his laptop.

"You finally have a family, John. It's what you've always wanted. You shouldn't give that up for..."

Sherlock didn't finish the sentence, but John knew what the end was. 'You shouldn't give it up for ME' was what Sherlock wanted to say. The man seemed to believe wholeheartedly that any decision John made that separated him from Mary would be due to Sherlock. Truth be told, what happened to the detective did play a large role in John's decision, but it wasn't the only reason behind it.

"Sherlock, stop. This is my decision. I wanted a family, yes, but not this. Not. This. So stop guilting yourself that it's your fault."

Sherlock looked slightly offended at the accusation that he had been 'guilting' himself. With a sigh he backed away and plopped himself down in his chair, pulling his feet up to rest on the seat and wrapping his arms around his bent legs.

"Have you told her? Of your decision."

John kept his eyes on the man, he had seemed so much more subdued since the whole incident had happened. No longer did he flail about complaining about being bored, no longer did he go out to Barts to steal body parts for experiments, no longer did he play the violin, letting the melody meander through the small flat, no longer did he revel in showing off his observational skills and awing John with his brilliance. He'd sit in his chair for hours, simply staring into space, sometimes he seemed almost nervous to be in the same room as John, preferring to flee to his own bedroom and staying there until John forced him to come out for some food. When John would mention some new mystery stumping Scotland Yard in the news papers Sherlock would simply utter 'dull' or 'boring', sometimes throwing in an insult or two towards the intelligence of NSY. But John was pretty sure that when he was alone he would contact Lestrade about them, because several times he noticed that the cases in the papers that he had brought to Sherlock's attention one day would suddenly be solved a few days later, thanks to an 'anonymous tip'. John wondered when did Sherlock stop using him as a sounding board for his deductions. He missed those times when Sherlock would be at his finest, eyes gleaming like a predator on the scent of a prey, stalking, adrenaline pulsing through his veins, ready to pounce and attack. He wanted to ask the man exactly what had caused this change, but for some reason he wasn't sure how to start. What could he say? 'Why are you not the brilliant maniac anymore?', hardly a good conversation starter.

The older man shook his head and turned his eyes to study the fireplace.

"No. Haven't had a chance to yet. Will need to...set up a meeting sometime."

Set up a meeting, with his own wife. How lovely.

Sherlock gave him a once over, noting the defeated look on the shorter man's face. Clearly he hadn't been sleeping well, the dark circles under his eyes were a dead giveaway. He's lost weight too, Sherlock had no illusion that John only kept eating three meals a day because he needed to force Sherlock to do the same, and even then he would pick and prod at his food. Over the course of the past few months Sherlock has seen the man go from anger, confusion, grief and now it seems, finally, acceptance. Sorrow and acceptance. Sorrow at the decision he has to make. Acceptance that he has to make it.

Although they were both back in the same flat Sherlock wasn't sure exactly how to handle the situation anymore. He had never been good with human interactions, and the bizzareness of their situation made it all the more difficult to deal with. He wanted to support whatever decision John made, but at the same time, he didn't want to be the cause of the break up of John's marriage. John chose Mary, he loved her, even Sherlock could understand that. Whatever chemical reactions that constituted the feeling humans labeled as 'love', John felt that for Mary. He saw the way John looked at the woman, the joy she brought to him, and he had seen the same in Mary. Sherlock didn't quite understand the need for love, but clearly it played a significant role in the lives of most people, John included, and he was willing to accept that. Two people, in love, and with a child on the way to boot. The only wrench in their happy union had been him, he had to go storming into Magnussen's office, thinking himself a brilliant genius, only to find that his deduction had been wrong and the one who was threatening the man was not Mrs. Smallwood. He had been the one that blew Mary's cover, if he hadn't been so overly confident in himself, if he had just taken a second to think, then Mary could have kept her cover and none of this would be happening.

Of course after that he had to let John in on the secret. Clearly he had been shot in the chest, meaning he had seen his shooter, and he had no doubt John would demand for him to reveal his shooter. He might have even gone to Mycroft to aide in his search if Sherlock had kept silent, and Sherlock couldn't be sure that Mary was clever enough to escape Mycroft's prying eyes. On top of which, who knows what actions Mycroft might take if Mary's secrets were unveiled to him. No. Better John heard it from Mary herself than to find out from Mycroft. So he had set up the meeting in the alley, away from spying cameras, where only the three of the could hear the secrets of one Mary Morstan. No. Mary Watson. He knew it would be painful, he had been prepared for it, but even still, he couldn't help the wrench in his heart when he heard John's voice cracking demanding to know why his wife had turned out 'like that'.

/Because you chose her./

Sherlock's own voice echoed in his mind. His answer to John's heartbreaking question.

/...you chose her.../

Sherlock bit his lip to refrain from pointing out that at one point, John had chosen him too. On that first night together, instead of ignoring his text for him to come to Baker Street if convenient or even if inconvenient, John had chosen to come. He had chosen to. He had had no reason to. What person in their right mind would go running off to meet someone who they had only known for less than 24 hours knowing that it was dangerous? But John had. John had made that choice to. Just like he made his choice this time. Granted Mary hadn't sent him a text so blatantly stating that it could be dangerous, but John had been drawn to her unconsciously, drawn to the danger that swirled around her, like the danger that enveloped Sherlock wherever he went.

"You should think it over. It doesn't make sense to divorce her, she's no danger to you or your child. There's no logical reason for a divorce. You'll only make yourself and her miserable."

John furrowed his eyebrows, staring at Sherlock in disbelief.

"Doesn't make sense? Doesn't make sense? Sherlock, she SHOT you! She LIED to me! About EVERYthing! I can't think of anything else that makes MORE sense!"

Sherlock shrugged.

"But she's not danger to YOU, John. She would never hurt you. She did everything she did for YOU. That's how she shows her love for you, that's how she protects you, because she knew if you found out about her past, this...grief would be what you would feel. This is exactly what she didn't want you to feel."

John shook his head.

"That's just...twisted. She could have told me before, she could have let me make the choice, but she chose to lie instead."

"Oh please, John. This isn't exactly the kind of conversation someone just slips in. When was she suppose to tell you? When was she suppose to pull you aside and tell you that 'Oh, by the way, I was an ex-secret service agent in the past and my name's not really Mary, but I can't tell you my real name because you'll hate me'? Do think about it John, what you're saying is the romantic side of you talking, but it's simply not realistic."

John growled in frustration.

"Well that doesn't make what she did OK. None of those are good enough reasons for lying about something so profound, and then almost killing you on top of that."

Sherlock stayed quiet this time. He unconsciously rubbed at where his bullet wound was. It still irritated him sometimes, and if he stretched the wrong way it still hurt, but it generally didn't disrupt his daily activities anymore. That had been his first time getting shot at such close range, and it really had hurt a lot more than he had expected. Even the beatings he got in Serbia seemed mild in comparison. This pain was so much more intense, and the searing heat as the bullet entered, it had felt like it was burning him from the inside.

"Stop that. You'll only irritate it more."

John scolded gently. He knew all too well what bullet wounds felt like.

Sherlock couldn't help but pout slightly. It was itchy and he wanted to scratch.

"Sherlock, stop that right now. You know you can't scratch it. If it's too itchy then go put some of that ointment on it."

The detective rolled his eyes.

"That stuff gets all over my shirts. I've already ruined several thanks to it."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Well...just wrap some gauze over it then."

Sherlock let out a long suffering sigh as if John had asked him to do something absolutely horrid.

"That impairs my movements. It's gets in the way. Plus it's uncomfortable."

John sighed, sometimes taking care of Sherlock was like taking care of a child. He threw tantrums at the littlest things, and usually without warning.

"Well, either way, stop scratching. It's just healing up, so let your body do its job. The itchiness will go away in a few more weeks."

Sherlock looked at him in horror.

"A few more weeks?! You're not serious!"

John's mouth tilted up in a sympathetic grin.

"Dead serious. Sorry."

Sherlock leaped out of his chair with an exasperated gesture of his hand, running the other one throw his wild curls.

"ARGH!"

John couldn't help the amused little chuckle that escaped his throat as he watched Sherlock storm into the kitchen, snatching a piece of toast and jamming it in his mouth, chewing as if the toast had offended him somehow.

"Keep scratching and it'll be even longer."

John informed him helpfully, only to be answered by one of the kitchen gloves being thrown at him. It smacked him on the head then flopped harmlessly to the floor. That caused John to laugh even more, the sound seeming strange since he hadn't laughed for a long time. Sherlock paused as he saw John laughing, a small grin spreading over his own face even though he tried to hide it behind his toast.

Well, maybe things will work out.

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><p><em>Found the information about divorce and annulment on the government of the UK's website (it seems I can't post URL here, but if you really want to know the details just do a Google search for UK divorce and annulment and you'll find it.)<em>

**_Thanks for reading! Comments and reviews appreciated as always!_**


	2. Chapter 2: Eavesdropped Conversations

**Please see chapter 1 for full author's notes =^_^=**

**Chapters 2 warnings:**  
>Not-so-nice things about Mary, divorce, Johnlock, long-windedness, thickheaded characters, overuse of adjectives, long paragraphs crappy titles, and Mycroft being Mycroft.<p>

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><p><strong>EAVESDROPPED CONVERSATIONS<strong>

The leaves on the trees had almost all fallen as November drew to a close. The weather was beginning to turn cold, with frost covering the windows in the early mornings, and everyone began bundling themselves up in their winter coats.

John stepped out of the cab and breathed a sigh of relief, welcoming the coldness that sharpened his senses. He stood in front of the familiar door of 221B Baker Street and looked around. He was back. He was really back for good now. An hour ago he had met up with Mary at their house and informed her of his decision. She had cried, but to her credit she hadn't begged with him to stay. Instead, she had simply stated that she understood his decision and that once the divorce papers are served to her she will sign them without complaint. They will hold shared custody of the child, splitting the time equally between who gets their daughter. After thinking things over, John had agreed to let Mary keep the house, since he was planning to move back into Baker Street anyway. Even so, John didn't think Mary will continue living there. It was simply too painful. She will most likely sell it and move somewhere else, but that was her choice to make.

The only time Mary had choked up had been when she asked him about the USB. John had returned it to her, unread, and for that she seemed grateful. He had promised her that no one had seen the contents on the memory stick and whatever secrets she kept on there are still safe. Whoever she was, whatever past she had, John really just wanted to forget and move on. He told her that for the time being he really had no desire to meet her, aside from when things concerning their child are in question. Outside of that, he didn't want to be a part of her life anymore, and hoped she will keep away from his as well.

That had been difficult and John hadn't been able to look her in the eyes when he said that. He couldn't so easily shuffle away the feelings he had had for her in some little box and lock it away, it didn't work like that. Seeing her, hearing her voice, it all brought back the memories of when they had first met, all the cute flirtatious messages they had sent, the fun dates they had gone on, and of course, the glorious day of their wedding. That first waltz together, the lovely dress that fitted her so beautifully, and John had felt so in love, so lucky, he almost couldn't believe it. Well, it seems like he shouldn't have believed it after all. He didn't want to see the tears that fell from her eyes, he wanted her to smile that beaming smile again, the one that made it all OK. He had depended on that smile in his darkest times after Sherlock's fake suicide. She had held his hand through those tough nights when he awoke from the nightmares, still seeing Sherlock standing on the roof of Bart, feeling his heart jump to his throat as he watched the man take that step forward, and the scream that caught in his throat when he heard the thud of a body hitting the pavement. She had been the one who soothed away those horrors and brought him back to reality, and John had promised to her and to himself that he would love and protect her for eternity. John hated himself for breaking that promise.

Mary had tried to make it easy for him. She held strong, not breaking down in front of him except a few tears that she quickly wiped away. She told him that she was grateful for the love he had shown her, and promised that she will be the best mother she is capable of for their daughter. She didn't blame him for his decision, and she even asked him to apologize to Sherlock for her for shooting him. She said that she really did like Sherlock, and she was truly sorry for hurting him. In the future, she hoped that one day they could talk again, and John had left, telling her that maybe, one day, he will find it in himself to forgive her, but not today.

The entire cab ride back John had to bite his lip to hold back his tears. Even so, they stubbornly blurred his vision as they drove past cafes and restaurants that he and Mary had frequented. Everywhere he looked there were memories. He needed to get back to Baker Street. He needed to be around the familiarity of the flat again. He needed to see Sherlock and have someone who could understand what he was going through. John couldn't help thinking how idiotic that seemed. Sherlock, the person he turns to to understand his pains of divorce. The man who got engaged as a ruse to break into a building. Yeah, that totally made sense. And yet, John couldn't think of anyone else to turn to. It's not as if he and Sherlock would have a heart to heart talk over tea and biscuits, but sometimes they jut KNEW what the other was thinking without needing a word to pass between them. Right now John needed that. He didn't want to talk about anything, but he just needed someone to get it.

Unfortunately, John's hopes for some peace and quiet at the flat were dashed as he made his way upstairs and heard the soft murmuring of voices from behind closed doors. Sherlock had company. John paused and listened, trying to determine if he should interrupt or not. The voices rose slightly and John made out the distinct voice of one Mycroft Holmes. The man had come to visit Sherlock only once in the hospital and once after he had been released. Both times the brothers continued their usual bickering as if nothing unusual had happened, although John had detected a slight narrowing of the older man's eyes when he had first laid eyes on his younger brother laid out on the hospital bed, hooked up to morphine. He had tsk tsk'ed at Sherlock, chiding him for his carelessness at getting shot, to which Sherlock had merely rolled his eyes and practically kicked the man out of the room. Afterwards he had told John that if Mycroft were to ever come visiting again at the hospital John was to top up his morphine to its highest level.

John wondered what Mycroft was visiting for this time. Surely he wouldn't be putting Sherlock on a case so soon, and he could hardly just drop by out of concern, because the Holmes brothers never did anything quite so sentimental. Even if that was his main purpose, he would hide it behind some other excuse.

A particularly low growl from Sherlock on the other side of the door drew John back to the conversation he was eavesdropping on. A part of him tugged at his conscience to either make his presence known, or scuttle downstairs for a cup of tea at Speedy's and wait for Mycroft to leave, but curiosity froze his feet to the ground.

"Oh for chrissakes Mycroft, this is completely outside the field of your concern!"

John had to lean in closer to catch Mycroft's softer reply. He silently cursed the man for always being so calm and never raising his voice. It did make eavesdropping so much more difficult.

"My younger brother, getting involved with another human being. I would say that is right in my field of concern."

John blinked in bewilderment. Involved? Sherlock, involved? Involved with who? Janine? But surely Mycroft could see through that little ruse that Sherlock had pulled.

"I'm NOT involved for the love of God. I TOLD you during the wedding I wasn't involved, and I am STILL not involved. Don't be dense. I know better."

John could practically hear Mycroft rolling his eyes.

"Oh do stop being in denial, Sherlock. It is so unbecoming of you. You would drop everything in a second if he was even at risk of being in danger. Are you really so blind to your own plight?"

John blinked more. 'He'? Who? Who would Sherlock drop everything for?

"That's ridiculous. I make one speech at a bloody wedding and you start deducing that I've now entered the realm of ordinary people."

"Ah, but it wasn't just one speech at a bloody wedding, was it? Diving into a bonfire? Did you really think I wouldn't find out about that little incident? Composing a waltz? Making a...vow? How much more sentimental can you get Sherlock? Already I have enough materials to write a Disney movie with. Oh, and let's not forget that little adventure you and he had bar hopping...what do they call it? Oh yes, a stag party. You, organizing a stag party. And don't even try to deny how well you took his wedding. I know exactly what you did that night after you came home. How much more ordinary can you be."

John let out a soft breath that he didn't even realize he had been holding. That was probably the most he has ever heard Mycroft talk, and he wondered what Sherlock's expression must be by this point. From the silence that followed John figured it was probably somewhere between outrage and sulking.

"That was...it was all acting, Mycroft. You should know, you were the one who taught me about how to deal with the battlefield. John asked me to be his best man, I did everything necessary to fulfill that task. If that included certain acts of sentimentality then yes, I can master that too."

John's breath caught. For some reason the thought that Sherlock doing all that he did as an act, as something that he only did because John requested him to, made his heart wrench. Was it really all that was? That touching speech, the lovely waltz, all just acting? Had Sherlock really treated his wedding like a battlefield? Like one of his cases?

"Yes, but you accepted John Watson's request to be best man in the first place, knowing those expectations would be placed on you. You could have declined, I doubt anyone would be surprised at your absence at a social function, much less a wedding."

More silence. John wondered what was going through Sherlock's mind at the moment. How he yearned to see the man's expression, to try and discern what his real thoughts were.

"I...He...He said I was his.."

"Best friend. Yes, I know. How...sentimental. And that was all it took, wasn't it? A confirmation that he considered you a friend, his best friend no less. And with that you were willing to take on the battlefield of a wedding. Not involved. Of course, Sherlock. Absolutely. If you can continue to delude yourself with that then you're more of an idiot than I once thought."

John bristled a bit at the insult against Sherlock. Idiot? No one got to call Sherlock an idiot except him. Wait, where did that come from?

"All of that is irrelevant now, Mycroft. So what if he considers me a best friend. That won't change anything."

John could imagine Sherlock waving his hand dismissively.

"Oh but it does, brother mine. Sentiment changes everything. And who is to say that his consideration of you as his best friend is one way only? What was it you said at his wedding? Something along the lines of John Watson being between the two people who love him most in all the world? Was that also an act? Which book did you copy that out of?"

"I didn't copy that! Mycroft how dare you accuse me of..."

Sherlock's voice trailed off as he realized what he had just admitted. John held his breath again.

"No...you didn't. You didn't copy that. Nor were you acting. Sherlock Holmes. In love. How adorable. How...human."

Sherlock's voice dropped an octave and John had to press himself right up to the door to hear.

"Get out. Mycroft. Leave. Now. Immediately."

Afraid that he was going to get caught, John hurriedly scrambled down the stairs and slammed the front door shut. He leaped up the stairs once more, this time making as much noise as he could manage to warn the brothers that he was coming. He took a second to wipe his expression so that it gave no hint of the conversation he had just heard before opening the door to the flat, stepping in and blinking in faked surprise at Mycroft, who was in the process of putting on his jacket.

"Oh, hello. Didn't see your car downstairs. Walking now to lose weight?"

Sherlock snickered from his seat on the sofa. Mycroft awarded him with an unamused tilt of his lips.

"Anthea was seeing to some other engagements. I do have other matters on my agenda besides babysitting my little brother you see."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Get out Mycroft. Or I'll throw you out the window."

Mycroft buttoned up his jacket and turned to his brother.

"Don't be so melodramatic. Afternoon, John."

With a nod at John, Mycroft stepped past him and exited their flat, his footsteps fading down the stairs. John shut the door after him before turning to Sherlock.

"So, uh, what did he want?"

Sherlock looked up at him and shrugged.

"Who knows. Don't care. Not my concern."

John took off his jacket and laid it over the back of his chair. Right, don't care. He bit his tongue against the urge to yell 'liar' to Sherlock and demand to know what that whole conversation had been about. No, John, no. Eavesdropping, not good. Very not good.

John settled into his chair, happy for the familiarity of it. He found his mind in utter chaos. Now his meeting with Mary earlier seemed like a distant memory, and instead his thoughts kept returning to the exchange between the Holmes brothers. In particular, the last part of what Mycroft had said. Sherlock Holmes. In love. In love? In love. With...John Watson? John shook his head. Did Sherlock even know what that meant? In love? Perhaps it was just, in love like best friends in love. But the way Mycroft had said it, it sounded as if he was mocking Sherlock for harbouring a feeling that wasn't returned. But if it was mere friendship then clearly John returned those feelings.

But Sherlock had been so shocked to even be considered a best friend that he had drank tea with an eyeball in it. A feeling like love...romantic love...that just seemed so odd when thought in the context of Sherlock. John wasn't sure the man's brain was capable of processing that particular sentiment. Of course he's sure Sherlock knew all the chemical aspects that make up the feeling of 'love', but to actually experience it? He might level up from eyeball tea to just imploding.

A tea cup held in front of him shook John from his thoughts. He looked up and realized Sherlock was holding a cup of tea out for him, his other hand held another cup for himself. John accepted the offering with a nod of thanks and eyed Sherlock as the man walked around to settle himself down in his own chair, opposite John. The way the sunlight shone through the windows danced off the man's dark curls and for a split second John found himself staring.

"How...how did she take it?"

John forced his eyes down to meet Sherlock's and had to consciously process the man's question.

"Uh...?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"You went to see Mary today, no?"

John blinked rapidly as his mind pieced together what Sherlock was asking.

"O..oh! Yes! Um, yeah, I did. It went..OK. As well as one can expect. She uh...she accepted my decision."

Sherlock took a sip of his tea.

"Of course she did."

John nodded and drank his own tea, noting that Sherlock had made it exactly how he liked it. Between sips, John snuck peaks at Sherlock, his eyes gazing over the other man from head to toe. Without a doubt Sherlock had a brilliant mind, if somewhat self destructive. One would be hard pressed to find another like Sherlock anywhere else in the world, and John would hazard to guess that there probably weren't many people like him in the entire human history. But on top of his mind, John never really thought about Sherlock's physical body. The detective was callously careless with it, abusing it to the point of exhaustion and using it for experiments. Often he seemed frustrated at the limitations his physical body placed on him and his way of dealing with it was to push it to its limits and beyond.

The man was lanky, a head taller than John. His eyes were piercing, a blue-ish green that changed depending on the light. Unlike his brother, Sherlock showed a range of expressions on his face, never bothering to hide when he was irritated, annoyed, excited or frustrated. His eyes could jump with energy or pierce with enough intensity to silence a room. His graceful hands and long tapered fingers were powerful enough to break bone in the heat of anger, or soft enough to cradle his beloved violin, drawing out the most delightful melodies from the instrument. The voice he spoke with was usually a warm baritone. His words came out in a flurry, usually giving the impression that his sentences could not keep up with the pace of his thoughts. He could manipulate that deep voice so that it became hard as steel when threatening his opponents, or soft and calm when he was sorting through his own thoughts. The man really was a beautiful creation in all sense of the word. Beautiful, mystical, and sometimes John still couldn't believe that such a bewildering man exists.

"John, your thoughts are on megaphone level decibels."

The younger man's offhanded remark shook John as he realized he had been staring, for how long he didn't even know. Oh God, could Sherlock deduce what his thoughts were? Did he notice a change in John's pupils' dilation? Had a twitch of his hand or a hitched breath given him away? If Sherlock had noticed anything he gave no indication as he waved his free hand.

"Well, I suppose you do have a lot to think over after today. We should call for delivery. You never did work well without some food, tends to make you..grumpy."

John swallowed the rest of his tea in one gulp, grateful that Sherlock had changed the subject.

"Yes, delivery sounds delightful. I'm starving."

Sherlock fished his phone out from his pocket and searched out the Chinese restaurant that he and John often ordered from.

"The usual?"

John nodded his consent and listened as Sherlock related their order to the restaurant staff. Maybe with some food he'll be able to clear his thoughts some.

* * *

><p><em>I have a soft spot for Mycroft. That is all.<em>

**_Thanks for reading!_**


	3. Chapter 3: Thunderstorm Confessions

**Please see chapter 1 for full author's notes =^_^=**

**Chapters 3 warnings:**  
>Johnlock, insecure Sherlock, John questioning his sexuality, long-windedness, thickheaded characters, overuse of adjectives, long paragraphs crappy titles.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>THUNDERSTORM CONFESSIONS<strong>

John never cared much for thunderstorms, especially after returning from Afghanistan. Loud noises and PTSD did not mix well. The damp weather also did not usually bode well for his scar. The frayed nerves tended to act up and cause him endless irritation. Generally he spent those days grouching around, trying to find ways to relax his muscles.

On this particular day, John wasn't the only grouch at 221B Baker Street. While the oncoming storm raged outside, Sherlock had bundled himself up in his dressing gown, curling up in his chair as he screamed at the TV. John sighed and tried to concentrate on his blog. He kept an eye on Sherlock to make sure the man didn't sneak a scratch at his chest where the wound no doubt was bothering him even as he rolled his eyes at how seriously Sherlock was taking a talk show.

"Why are these people so stupid? Do they even have brains?"

Sherlock bellowed at the screen as the audience on TV cheered on some outrageous guest.

John just shook his head. He got up and went into the kitchen, digging through the cupboards for something he can munch on. Admittedly watching Sherlock at the moment was proving a lot more entertaining than updating his blog, the man was like a TV show himself sometimes. John plugged the kettle in and took out two cups. He leaned his back against the kitchen and glanced out the doorway that connected it to the sitting room. He could more or less see Sherlock, eyes glued to whatever was happening on the TV. His hair was a mess and he was barefoot. John wondered if the man didn't feel cold at all since the room was slightly chilly in his opinion. Sherlock never seemed to bother with mundane things like weather, he never wore short sleeves or shorts in the summer, and he never bundled up more than his usual Belstaff and scarf in the winter. The man never complained about the heat or the cold, unless it was in observation to how that might effect an experiment.

He absently turned off the kettle once the whistle signaled that the water had boiled. Just as he was about to pull out the tea leaves, his eyes landed on the jar of instant coffee they kept next to the tea. He weighed his options and opted for the stronger drink instead. Carefully he poured the water into the two cups, watching the clear liquid slowly darken with colour. The strong aroma of coffee was refreshing and John breathed it in. His eyes glanced around and with only a slight hesitation he reached for the alcohol cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Neither he nor Sherlock drank regularly, but they kept a few bottles of the staples around for special occasions. Sometimes Sherlock found need for them for experiments too, and John occasionally fancied a glass on nights when the nightmares got particularly bad. He figured an added bit of alcohol to their coffee would do well to help both of them relax. He had no doubt that Sherlock's bullet wound was proving an annoyance in this weather too, even though the man hadn't mentioned it.

Sherlock looked up when John returned to the sitting room, drinks in hand. He took the cup that John held out, taking a sip before John could warn him of the added ingredient. Startled at the burn of alcohol on his tongue Sherlock glanced up at John questioningly.

"Whiskey. Just a tad. Should help with the wound."

John answered the gaze without needing the question to be voiced.

Slowly, Sherlock took another sip, rolling the flavour over his tongue.

"You really think it's a good idea for us to be around alcohol after that stag night disaster?"

John grinned as the memories from that night flooded his mind. Some of it was kind of blurry, he had some vague notion of being passed out on the staircase, but he appreciated Sherlock's effort anyway. Clearly the man was not in the habit of regularly organizing social gatherings, but he had taken his task very seriously. John recalled when Sherlock had came to him with his laptop, showing the older man various photos of strippers and asking him which one he fancied for the party. Apparently, according to his meticulous research, strippers were normal for stag parties. John had gone completely red and shut the laptop hurriedly. He assured his friend that no strippers would be necessary, and that he actually preferred it if they kept any stripping out of it.

"A cup of Irish coffee will hardly make us drunk, Sherlock. Granted I do find you quite entertaining when under the influence."

Sherlock glared at him.

"I won't deny that the influence of alcohol dulling the senses can be considered pleasant, possibly even desirable, but the resulting lack of control over one's physical functions added to the over sensory stimulation on the brain is definitely not desirable nor pleasant in the least."

"A hangover, Sherlock. It's called a hangover."

John pulled up his chair next to Sherlock's and sat down with his drink.

"Hm, yes. I'll have to recalculate our alcohol intake levels in the future. I think Molly must have made a mistake."

John coughed a bit at that piece of information.

"Alcohol...intake levels? You asked Molly to calculate our alcohol intake levels?"

Sherlock shrugged as if that was the most normal thing in the world.

"I had to have that data to gauge how much to drink at each location. But clearly we ended up consuming too much for some reason. There had to have been a miscalculation somewhere in there."

John hid his guilty look. He had a feeling he knew where the miscalculation was, except it had nothing to do with Molly Hooper. He wasn't sure how to rationalize to Sherlock that he had spiked several of their drinks without the other man's knowledge, so he just kept quiet.

Sherlock finished his drink and went into the kitchen to make himself another. Apparently the beverage appealed to him. Johnmindlessly watched the telly, not really listening to what was being shown. He wondered, on that night, when they had both been plastered out of their minds, if he had pushed, would Sherlock have revealed more about his...feelings? Usually even the mention of the word in Sherlock's presence made the man sneer in disdain. John couldn't push away the memory that Mycroft mentioned something about Sherlock doing something after the wedding and curiosity ate at him regarding what that had meant.

John wasn't even sure when Sherlock had left the wedding. That night have been a blur, between the excitement of being a newlywed to the news that Mary had been pregnant, he really hadn't paid much attention to much else. Sometime through one of the countless dances he had come to notice that his tall friend had disappeared. Try as he might he had been unable to find the man and a quick chat with Mrs. Hudson and the others had revealed little information. It seems no one had seen Sherlock after that first dance. Molly mentioned seeing the man heading out the door, but she had thought perhaps he was just going out for some air, after all crowds were not Sherlock's strong suit.

As Sherlock settled back into his chair with a content huff of breath John turned and studied the man.

"You know, I always wondered..."

Sherlock tilted his head and waited for him to continue.

"At the wedding, or I guess at the reception, when exactly did you slip out? Mary had wanted to have a dance with you you know, but we couldn't find you anywhere."

Sherlock moved his eyes back to the screen and slowly took another sip from the cup.

John waited, his eyes carefully analyzing Sherlock's expression. He looked slightly uncertain, like when he had informed John he was attempting to 'chat' during the bloody soldier case. Sherlock took so long to answer that John half thought that maybe he didn't hear him. Cautiously, he reached over and gave Sherlock's shoulder a little push.

"Sherlock? You all right?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and lowered his cup, but he avoided John's eyes.

"I...I left after we talked. Had some..cases to work on."

John frowned. So Sherlock had left at the first chance he got. It really wasn't a surprise to him that Sherlock would feel uncomfortable at a wedding. The man had declined even to attend his birthday dinner with friends, and that had far less people than the wedding. Still, Sherlock had seemed to take it in stride and John had almost fooled himself into believing that Sherlock had enjoyed himself to an extent.

"Sherlock...look, I'm sorry if I kind of pushed it on you. I realize attending weddings isn't exactly something you particularly take pleasure in."

Sherlock shook his head quickly.

"No, no, that wasn't it. I was...I was happy, you know, that you asked me to be the best man. But, I think that will probably be the last wedding I will be attending, unless a case is involved."

John gave Sherlock's shoulder a joking nudge.

"Aw, come on, don't say that. Maybe you'll get married someday, find that special someone."

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes at the absurdity of the thought.

"John, your delusions regarding love really knows no bounds. There is no 'special someone', the idea that there is one person who is 'meant to be' for each person is completely illogical. Besides, who..."

Sherlock's voice suddenly dropped and the rest of his sentence was lost. John leaned in closer, trying to catch what he said.

"Sorry, what?"

Sherlock took a second before he turned his head so he can look John straight in the eyes.

"I said, besides who in their right mind would love a sociopath? That alone would make me question the stability of their mind."

For some reason, John thought he saw a twinge of sadness lurking behind the crystal blue eyes. The words seemed so harsh, did Sherlock so truly believe that he was unlovable? Or was he saying that anyone with an ability to love him would have to be insane?

The older man kept the gaze, although it felt awkward.

"So...you're saying no one can love you?"

One side of Sherlock's lips tilted up. If John didn't know better he would think the grin looked somewhat bitter.

"What do you think? After everything I've put you through. Getting you wrapped up with a criminal mastermind, having a bomb strapped to you, making you think I had killed myself and leaving you to grieve for two years, then crashing back into your life, and then...and then ruining your marriage. Taking away the one woman you loved. That's the kind of person I am, John. Now tell me, who in their right mind would love that?"

John's frown grew with each word that left Sherlock's lips. He wanted to shove a cushion into Sherlock's face just to get him to stop talking.

"First of all, let's get something straight. You did not ruin my marriage. You need to stop saying and believing that. It has to stop, because it's not true. So stop blaming yourself. Second, while I was furious at the whole faked suicide, I forgave you already. Granted you kind of forced that out of me with another of your little tricks, but I did forgive you and I have no intention of going back on that. Sherlock, for someone who's usually so conceited about himself you have a surprisingly low level of self worth. It IS possible to love you. It is only far too possible to love you."

They grew silent, the sound of the TV barely registering in their minds. Two pairs of eyes tried to convey what words could not. The moment stretched and neither knew how long it lasted.

Suddenly, a crash brought both parties back to reality. John's hand had gone limp and his cup had fallen to the floor. Thankfully he had finished his drink already so the cup rolled harmlessly in a little half circle before settling to a stop.

Muttering an apology, John bent down to pick up pick up the cup. He could still feel Sherlock's eyes on him and knew the man was still watching. He hadn't quite meant to say what he did, it went a little further than he had intended, but his mouth had moved on its own without his brain thinking through everything first. Even to his ears that had sounded somewhat like a love confession, and he cringed, hoping Sherlock hadn't picked up on it. The last thing he needed was Sherlock to think he was getting lovey dovey around the man. Especially since he didn't even know what the heck he was doing.

Ever since that eavesdropped conversation John had been mulling over exactly what it was between him and Sherlock. Initially they had been flatmates and colleagues, working together to solve crimes. That line had blurred into friendship easily enough. John certainly considered Sherlock a friend, and John would go so far to say that Sherlock considered him as much. Or at least, whatever constituted as friendship in the man's mind. Clearly he cared about John's safety and became concerned when he was put at risk. The way he had dove head first into that bonfire to save John had proved that much. But past friendship...could there be something between them past friendship?

Sherlock had never shown romantic affection for anyone as far as John knew. The one time when he witnessed Sherlock with Janine he had almost fallen over from shock. He thought maybe the man had fallen ill, maybe the shock of John's wedding had thrown the detective off kilter? John had been on the verge of calling up Mycroft and having the man get his brother tested for psychological trauma. Sherlock doing affectionate things just did not computer. Error. Major error. Witnessing the way Sherlock had allowed Janine to crawl into his lap, and how he had kissed her goodbye, John had felt incredibly uncomfortable, but he had simply thought it was because this was Sherlock. Sherlock actually wrapping his arm around her waist, Sherlock actually pressing his lips against her's, it was like oil and water, it just didn't mix. But looking back, was his discomfort due to something else?

If John was completely truthful with himself, he had to admit that in the split second when Sherlock had pulled out the engagement ring he did feel the slightest prick of jealousy. HE was suppose to be the one Sherlock relied on, HE was the one Sherlock threw theories at, HE was the one that made sure the man ate his meals and slept when he needed to, HE was the one that chased down criminals with the brilliant detective, HIM, John Watson, not some woman Sherlock picked up from his wedding. How could Sherlock replace him? When Sherlock had dropped his act as soon as they entered the elevators John had felt a flood of relief wash through him. No, this still was the Sherlock he knew, and it had all been a ruse. But that wasn't fair. Didn't John also replace Sherlock with Mary? Why would he feel so upset if Sherlock had replaced him? Granted he had met Mary while Sherlock was supposedly dead, but when Sherlock returned, it didn't change the fact that he was no longer the only person of importance in John's life. Sherlock had had to deal with that, and he had. He hadn't shown jealousy, or thrown hissy fits, or attempted to drive Mary away. Come to think of it, that had been quite out of character for the man who continuously sabotaged John's relationships before. John ran through his memories of them together, no, Sherlock never went so far as to insult Mary like he did his previous girlfriends. Why didn't he notice that before? If Sherlock had managed to accept being replaced, why did John feel so...crummy at the mere thought of it? Or was it just because Sherlock never cared about his position in John's life in the first place?

Did he want to be the most important person in Sherlock's life?

Did he want Sherlock to be the most important person in his life?

Could it be possible?

But...John swallowed hard as his brain stammered out what he had been telling himself over and over. The biggest obstacle to all of this.

He wasn't gay.

Was he?

Can he be in love with a man if he wasn't gay?

John had never felt attract towards any other men before. Never felt excitement around them, never felt sexual tension in their presence. But Sherlock...if Sherlock was a woman, would John be romantically attracted to her? A resounding 'YES' flew threw his mind. This person was intelligent, sharp, lived without limitations or fear and dove head first into danger for the sake of others, as much as Sherlock denied being a hero. This person was like no one else in the world, thrilling, exciting, and simply awe-inspiring. When this person entered a room, all eyes turned, unconsciously drawn like magnets. What part of that isn't attractive?

So then, that only left the issue of gender. Could John actually imagine himself with another man? Being physically intimate? He had never had cause to think about it before. Could he imagine himself in Sherlock's arms? His lips pressing against Sherlock's, would it be like kissing a woman? The thought should have made him cringe, but he found it was easier to think about than recalling Janine's encounter with Sherlock. John almost laughed. Great. He was comparing himself to Janine now. That's just great. But really, how horrible can it be? Some of his relationships with women had been absolute disasters, if he and Sherlock really can be more than simply friends, what harm could that cause?

Of course, all of that still hinged on what Sherlock felt. The idea of relationships and Sherlock still didn't seem to compute in John's mind. Even if John was willing, whether or not Sherlock was even interested is a completely different matter.

Sherlock remained in his seat, eyes peering at John as the man bent to pick up the cup on the floor. He knew John's mind had been preoccupied with something, but he couldn't pinpoint what. It seemed ever since that day when he came back from meeting with Mary he had grown...distant. He'd sit staring at his laptop, not typing anything. More often his shirt buttons would be buttoned wrong, and Sherlock would have to point it out to him before he left the flat. Several times as Sherlock sat in the kitchen working on experiments John would stand in the doorway, not saying anything, but just stand and stare. Initially Sherlock ignored him, he was used to ignoring people, but it happened often enough that it began to concern the taller man. When he peeked over sometimes he'd see a contemplative look on John's face, as if he was remembering something and at the same time trying to figure something out. Whenever he asked, however, John would simply shake his head or shrug his shoulders and wander off without further explanation.

Rationally Sherlock would conclude that John was simply thinking about Mary. He certainly had plenty to think about so it was no surprise that he would space out sometimes. But Sherlock had a sneaking feeling that wasn't all. He seemed more jumpy around Sherlock, whenever Sherlock went to sit next to him on the sofa the shorter man would attempt to pull away as far as he could without making his actions obvious. A few times when Sherlock had peered over his shoulder at his laptop, something that he used to do regularly, John had practically jumped out of his skin. It felt like John was purposely trying to place physical distance between them. If all he was focused on was Mary, Sherlock saw no reason for his change in behaviour towards Sherlock.

Now John avoided looking at Sherlock as he scooted off his chair to take his empty cup to the kitchen. He rinsed it out in the sink and set it on the rack to dry.

Sherlock turned off the TV that neither of them were watching and followed, dumping the rest of the contents of his cup in the sink after John was finished using it. Instead of washing his own cup, however, Sherlock simply set it in the sink.

John frowned and reached for it, intent on washing it too.

"As far as I know there's been no case of people dying from doing the dishes. I doubt it would kill you to wash your own dishes once in awhile."

Sherlock leaned on the counter next to the sink, watching John's lowered head.

"Hm. I find if I leave it long enough either you or Mrs. Hudson will take care of it."

John shot the man a sulky glare.

"Keep this up and I'm going to start buying paper cups and plates for you."

Sherlock merely shrugged.

"Hardly matters to me. Ceramic or paper, serves the same purpose."

John wiped his hands on the towel and rubbed a hand over his face.

"Can..can you stop staring at me? Like..that?"

Sherlock's eyebrows rose and he pursed his lips.

"Why? Why does it bother you?"

John peeked up and met the other's eyes exasperatedly.

"Because it's strange! People don't normally just stare at another person so intently like that, it's...disconcerting."

"It makes you uncomfortable when I look at you. That was never an issue before."

Sherlock observed.

John huffed and hurried out of the kitchen. Sure enough, Sherlock followed him. He didn't want to admit it, but he kind of felt like a mouse being chased around by an inquisitive cat.

Unsure how to shake his tail, John turned and faced the other man.

"Well is there a reason why you're so persistent in staring at me? Did you want something?"

Sherlocked seemed to hesitate at the question. He rubbed his hands together in front of him before interlinking his fingers.

"I..I wasn't finished...our conversation before."

John straightened and looked at the man in puzzlement. He crossed his arms and nodded for Sherlock to continue.

"You said that 'it is possible to love me'. I want to know on what evidence you base that statement on."

The question caught John off guard and he stared at Sherlock without moving as his mind processed what the other was asking.

"...Evidence?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently as it seems John couldn't quite understand.

"Yes, John. Evidence. You stated an observation, I want to know what kind of evidence you have to support your observation."

John gnawed on his bottom lip. Evidence? Proof that Sherlock can be loved?

"Uh...well, you're smart. Or rather, brilliant. Unique. It's hard to be bored around you, and..."

John felt his face warm as his eyes scanned the detective.

The curly haired man didn't give any indication of having noticed, but instead seemed to be considering each word that John voiced.

"And?"

"And..uh, well, I mean, you're..you're not exactly bad looking."

"Physical attraction hardly equals love. Lust perhaps. Sexual desires. A person can be sexually attracted to another without love being any part of the equation."

John flicked a measuring eye over Sherlock and took a deep breath. Sherlock had given him the perfect opening to broach the subject matter and John decided to dive head first into it.

"Have you ever felt that then? Sexual attraction, for another person I mean?"

Sherlock stopped all movement, almost like freezing in time. John could practically hear the gears turning in that brain of his and he wondered if this was what Sherlock meant when he said someone was thinking too loudly.

"I've...never seen the need for that. Clouds the judgement. Love, sex, attraction."

The doctor slowly exhaled. Of course Sherlock would think that. That was hardly surprising at all. It seems anything that took time and attention away from solving cases were a waste of time in his mind.

"Well, yeah, I guess that's true. But it can be..pleasant. The feeling of being in love, and, well, sex of course there's the physical pleasures, and being attracted to someone. You know, that kind of...giddy feeling you get."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose as if he had been told something quite disturbing.

"Giddy? I see nothing pleasant about such an affliction."

John sighed in defeat and made his way to the sofa where he sat down. He leaned back, crossed his arms and his ankles, studying Sherlock from his seat.

"So, no then. Never felt any kind of attraction, be it physical or otherwise for another human being?"

Sherlock seemed slightly unsure of himself. He started pacing, the way he days when faced with a particularly puzzling problem. He clasped his hands behind his back, trying to draw up the information he knew about the subject at hand and make sense of it.

"It's true that growing up I never really took time to deal with others, well, except Mycroft. So no, never felt any attraction, or desire, for another person in any way. They always just got in my way.

When I was with Janine she attempted to initiate sexual activities several times, but I simply couldn't find myself interested, even if the act would have cemented her trust and desire for me more."

"Well, what about the woman? You know, Irene Adler? You seemed to have a connection with her?"

John interrupted before he could stop himself. He really didn't need to hear about Sherlock and Janine's private activities, even though he felt a small ripple of relief upon hearing that their relationship hadn't involved sex.

Sherlock stumbled a bit in his steps as if John's voice had disrupted his rhythm.

"Her? She's the only woman I've met thus far whose intellect came anywhere close to mine. It was...entertaining...somewhat. But I would hardly describe it as attraction. A game to play. A game I won I might add."

John held up his hands as if telling Sherlock to slow down.

"OK. Hold up. In all your life, you've never met a person whom you wanted to be around? Whom you enjoyed the company of? Someone who you look forward to seeing every day? Someone that you WANTED to see every day? You know, a person who, if they're not around, you kind of feel like something's missing?"

Sherlock's footsteps stopped as his mind ran through a list of everyone he knows. He leaned against the desk where John's laptop rested and wrapped one arm around his midsection, resting the elbow of his other arm on it, propping up his chin with his hand.

"Before my two years away I no, no one like that. But since coming back..."

Sherlock worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

John's eyes opened slightly in surprise. Really? Since he came back? But as far as John could tell Sherlock hadn't shown any particular interest in anyone recently.

"Since coming back someone's been on your mind?"

The short haired man helpfully supplied. This ought to be interesting.

Sherlock wrinkled his eyebrows as if he wasn't sure how to describe something.

"...I guess that would be an accurate summation."

John unfolded his arms and pulled a cushion into his lap, fluffing it absently just for something to do.

"OK, well, do you always think about this person?"

"...Define always."

John suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

"In your free time, maybe even when you're doing something they just sneak into your thoughts. Every chance you get."

Sherlock seemed to do some calculations in his head before nodding tersely.

"Yes. That does happen."

John nodded.

"OK. Do you enjoy this person being around? Like, they make you feel comfortable?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I don't feel annoyed or aggravated when this person is around."

John couldn't help his chuckle. Well, for Sherlock Holmes that's almost like a love confession right there.

"I'll take that as a yes, then. How about if you saw this person with another? Like, romantically? Imagine if you saw this person out on a date with another. How would that make you feel?"

Suddenly, Sherlock's expression seemed to darken. He frowned and pinned John with an intense stare that caught the man off guard. He blinked, wondering if he had somehow stepped on a landmine without realizing. He suddenly felt tense, afraid he had somehow offended Sherlock without meaning to.

Abruptly, Sherlock looked away, his gaze switching to glaring at the floor in front of him. He pressed his lips together and seemed to swallow hard.

"If...if this person...were to be romantically involved...with another...I'd step aside."

John had to lean forward from the sofa to hear Sherlock's words. The man's voice had dropped in volume and John had a hard time catching what he said.

"You'd step aside? You wouldn't tell her how you felt and leave it for her to decide?"

The muscle in Sherlock's jaw twitched and John was sure the man was clenching his teeth. He waited a few beats, concentrating on his breathing and keeping it steady.

"If...the person was happy, it would be irrational for me to interfere. This person would, by all calculations, have a much higher probability of obtaining happiness with another person than with me."

Another dig at himself. John wondered when did Sherlock start being so self deprecating. Usually Sherlock was quite an arrogant man, believing that any time he chose to spare upon an ordinary human being as some kind of gift. Whoever Sherlock's found himself attracted to, this person must be quite an individual.

"Sherlock, you realize when it comes to these things calculations don't work, right? Humans aren't calculators, you can't just input variables and expect to come out with a guaranteed outcome. Look, all I'm saying is if you have been fancying someone, you should let her know. I mean whatever she decides, that's up to her, but nothing would change if you don't at least make your...thoughts known."

John hesitated to use the word 'feelings' since he knew the disdain Sherlock held towards it. He stomped down the nagging voice that screamed that even if Sherlock's little fling with Janine had been faked, this time he wasn't acting. He tried not to think about the image of having to face seeing someone else on Sherlock's arm in the future. When Sherlock finally introduces John to whoever this mysterious person is, he'll have to brace himself, at the very least he'll have to work on his own acting skills and not just stand there with his jaw hanging open like he had when faced with Janine in the flat. Hopefully Sherlock will give him some warning next time.

"That's really what you think? In all honesty?"

Sherlock switched from glaring at the floor to studying John. Clearly he was trying to judge how much of John's advice had been the romantic in him talking, and how much was legitimate advice he should follow. For once John found himself in the place of the one answering questions, instead of the other way around, and he quite revelled in it. The great Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective extraordinaire, asking him for love advice. The realization almost made John laugh out loud but he stifled it at the last minute, knowing that Sherlock would be incredibly miffed.

"Yeah, really. That's usually the best way to go about this stuff."

"You've been under the assumption that this other person is female."

Surprise blossomed over John's face. Sherlock hadn't framed it as a question, but merely an observation.

"Uh..well...yeah. Yeah...I mean...I thought...am I wrong?"

Sherlock pursed his lips.

"Would your advice change if you are?"

Instinctively, John wanted to say 'no', it doesn't matter the gender, being confessed to was usually quite flattering, but he had to put a halt to his romanticism and really think through what Sherlock was asking. Sherlock...telling another man...some men didn't take well to being confessed to by another bloke and John really didn't want to see Sherlock in an awkward situation the first time he brushed with affection.

"Um...well...can you...tell me a bit about this man then? Like, his personality."

Sherlock took a moment, his eyes closing as his index finger brushed over his lips in thought. John somehow found that quite mesmerizing and he took the opportunity that Sherlock's closed eyes offered to stare without inhibitions.

"He's brave. Quite, yes. Clever. Honest, causes him some troubles sometimes. Loyal. He tries to hide it, but he's a romantic. Fascinated by danger. Bit of an adrenaline junkie. Cares..too much sometimes."

Suddenly Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he leveled the full intensity of his ice blue eyes on John.

"He also has quite a collection of jumpers and chose to make the most unpleasant arsehole his best friend, deduce from that what you will."

Time in the room seemed to freeze. Neither of the occupants moved, only the occasional blink and the slow rise and fall of their chests as they inhaled and exhaled. John wasn't quite sure if he was dreaming at this point or if this was reality. Maybe he had fallen asleep watching TV and this was some bizarre dream his mind had come up with. He fisted his hands and pressed his short nails into his palm, feeling the pain that confirmed this wasn't a dream. But it didn't add up. Reality shouldn't have Sherlock standing a mere three strides away, watching him like a hawk after just confessing. That didn't compute. Error. John's mind helpfully supplied once more. Errors seemed to be popping up quite often recently. Maybe he was just hallucinating. Maybe his mind had taken Sherlock's real words and twisted them to fit what he wanted to hear. In which case he should really double check before making a response.

"You...he..jumpers...what?"

John's eloquent response made him want to slap himself and he shook his head out of the stupor to try again.

"I mean, what?"

Sherlock's frown was almost intense as his eyes and John swore he saw a flash of fear in them. He straightened, turning his head to face the fireplace and fixed his somewhere on the mantle above that.

"You heard me perfectly. I'm not repeating myself."

John stood up slowly, testing out his legs to make sure they didn't give out on him from shock. He needed Sherlock to turn back towards him so he can see the other's expression. He needed the next part of their conversation to be completely clear without any mistakes or misunderstandings. He needed to hear exactly what the brilliant detective was thinking. He needed his heart to stop thundering so he can think straight.

"Sherlock, look at me."

The demand was met with reluctance, but slowly Sherlock turned his mesmerizing blue eyes back in John's direction. His expression was carefully kept blank, making it impossible for John to judge what he was thinking. John held their gaze, thinking over how he was going to phrase what he said next.

"This...'other person' you had been describing...that was...me?"

John silently cursed as the last word came out slightly squeaky, but he pressed on.

"I'm the one that...that's been on your mind? Me?"

John saw Sherlock's Adams apple slide down that slim throat as the other swallowed, but his expression was still painfully neutral. He didn't look away, but it seemed like he had put up a wall in front of them so that he wasn't actually looking at John.

"Yes. I really didn't think that particular information would catch you so unaware, John. But I want to reassure you that I am only telling you because according to your own advice I should let the other person, in this case, you, know of my thoughts. I am perfectly aware that you are, by your own admission, not attracted to other males, therefore I hold no expectation of any form of reciprocation for these...uh..these...sentiments."

The words flew out of Sherlock's mouth without pause. He was rambling John suddenly realized. Sherlock Holmes was so nervous he was rambling.

"How..long?"

John, on the other hand, couldn't seem to jump start his brain into uttering any fully comprehensive sentences.

"I'm not particularly aware of when these sentiments began, so I can't give you a precise answer to your question. I will, however, admit that when I realized I had completely disabled Moriarty's network and would be able to return to London, you were the primary person of interest in my thoughts. Possibly following then you continued to stay at the forefront of my mind. Although that could be attributed to the fact that you and I are constantly in close vicinity of each other due to you aiding me in my work, and aside from that, this past year since my return I have been heavily involved in your wedding which required me, by its very nature, to think about you."

There was a pause after Sherlock's speech during which John attempted to catch his brain up to all the information that Sherlock had thrown at him. The man really could talk at the speed of light when he wanted to.

"So...a year. A year. Why didn't you say something sooner? If we didn't have this conversation today, were you ever planning on telling me?"

Sherlock blinked and looked at John like he had asked a question which the answer is as clear as crystal.

"I told you, I had no intention of interfering when you were in love with another. I have full confidence in my own abilities to restrain myself in these matters. If you hadn't pressed the issue today, then by most calculations no, I would not have revealed this information to you. I don't see why I would have, this is hardly a subject which comes into our daily conversations on a regular basis. As a matter of fact, if my memory is correct, and it always is, this is the first time we have discussed matters pertaining to human attraction at all. Well, except that brief brush back when I was pretending to be in a relationship with Janine, but I believe you were too incapacitated by shock at that time to truly digest any information sufficiently."

Sherlock's mention of 'another' suddenly flooded John with a realization. If he had been harbouring these feelings, then John's request for Sherlock to be the best man at his wedding must have been excruciatingly painful. He tried to draw up memories of their time together since Sherlock had returned, attempting to recall any instance when he might have caught onto Sherlock's hidden emotions. A hidden glance, stolen gaze, anything? But Sherlock had put aside all rationality aside, something he must have been loathe to do, to involve himself in possibly the biggest celebration of love known to humans, a wedding. Wasn't that enough a hint to John that Sherlock must have held...some kind of feelings for him to do that? His speech...all the effort he put into making sure things went smoothly, it had all been so out of character for Sherlock. At the time John had simply been relieved that Sherlock had accepted the best man position, and had taken it seriously, but looking back John wanted to kick himself for not reading more into it. It didn't make sense, it didn't make sense for Sherlock to even agree to GO to the wedding when he had refused to participate in any social functions before, unless it was case related. But it all made sense if John were to add in the variable that Sherlock...Sherlock cared for him. Care about his happiness, about John Watson and what made John Watson happy. That variable made the calculation click.

John felt the flutter of Sherlock's dressing gown as the man attempted to brush past him to go into the kitchen. He kept his voice smooth, but tense, clearly tightly controlled.

"Careful you don't strain yourself thinking so hard, John. There's absolutely no need for it. You're only interested in romantic liaisons with women. I hope you will trust me enough to believe that I will not bring this up again nor will I allow it to interfere in our further interactions."

Without thinking John reached out a hand as Sherlock passed by, gripping the man's arm tightly for fear that he will slip through his fingers. Oh no, he was not letting this go so easily.

"That's not good enough. Sherlock. This conversation isn't over."

Sherlock froze like a a switch had been flipped. John could feel the muscles under his hand contracting, turning hard. Suddenly, Sherlock's voice lost its confident tone, dipping until it was barely audible. His head dropped and he tugged at his arm, almost desperately wanting John to release him.

"John, it is. It's over. Let it be over."

The soft words were almost painful to hear. They sounded pleading, as if the man who voiced them needed his words to be true. He needed this to be over and for John to allow things to go back to the way they were, because if John chose instead to walk out of his life once more now that he knew, Sherlock wasn't sure where that would leave him.

John didn't let go. He held on although he loosened his grip.

"That's not fair, Sherlock. You can't just drop that bomb on me and then leave without even giving me the chance to tell you my thoughts. It's my turn."

Sherlock sighed. Oh, here we go. The pity speech. The speech about how John loves him as a friend and always will, because John's loyal like that, but how he can't love Sherlock back that way. Because that's what it comes down to, isn't it? At the end of the day, no one can love Sherlock that way. It's already a miracle that John's managed to consider him even as a friend, he just had to go and push it. Sherlock mentally kicked himself. Is this what ordinary people's minds are like? Swirling with this constant obsession over feelings and emotions? It's absolutely horrid. No wonder Mycroft abhorred it. After this Sherlock is never letting his mind wander to this area again, it is determinedly unpleasant.

"Can you..look at me? Sherlock?"

John's voice made Sherlock turn his head to meet the other's eyes. They were wide and so many emotions flickered through them at lightening speed that Sherlock had a hard time catching all of them.

The shorter man pulled on Sherlock's arm until the lanky detective followed him obediently to the sofa. At John's slight nudge, he sat down, watching as John sat himself on the edge of their coffee table, facing Sherlock. John pressed his hands down on his own thighs, leaning forward, eyes not moving from Sherlock's face. His turn to talk. And he's going to make sure Sherlock listened without interrupting.

"First, I am glad you told me. I wish you had told me earlier than today, but better late than never."

Sherlock opened his mouth to contradict and John quickly held up a hand to stop him. No. No interruptions. Sherlock's mouth closed and his bottom lip disappeared once more between his teeth.

"Second. Sherlock...I know that in the time since our first meeting, I have repeated several times I am not gay. Because I had never felt any sort of attraction to another man, I didn't have any reason to doubt that. But...recently..."

Now it was John's turn to feel uncomfortable. He still wasn't one hundred percent sure about himself, but Sherlock had been honest with him, and he owed the man at least his own honesty in return. Even if he were to simply admit that he was confused.

"Recently I haven't been as sure. If I am to be completely honest, I have started to wonder if it is possible for me to have a relationship...not just a friendship, but a romantic relationship, with another man."

Sherlock's breathe caught and his breath hitched slightly. John caught the sound, and his eyes instinctively lowered to land on that pale, slender throat.

"Why...? What caused you to suddenly...wonder this?"

Sherlock couldn't help asking. His voice was shaky and his eyes were wide, staring at John openly.

John licked his lips.

"Because. Because I think I'm attracted to another man."

There. He had laid himself out in the open. Nothing to hide behind now. Nothing to shield himself with anymore.

Sherlock's eyes widened even further, if that was possible. A glimmer of hope had started to filter into the captivating orbs and John found himself wanting to see that hope blossom.

"...Who?"

John almost missed the whispered question. He leaned further forward, his knees brushing up against Sherlock's and reached out to take the other's hand in his own. Wordlessly, he flipped his hand over so that his palm was facing up, Sherlock's wrist grasped lightly in his fingers. The position allowed Sherlock's long, beautiful fingers to drape elegantly over his own wrist, and Sherlock accepted the silent invitation, shifting his index and middle finger until they rested directly over John's pulse.

Elevated.

Yes. Definitely, elevated.

Neither man seemed to know what to say from that point. It felt like anything said would break the spell and this dream would shatter into pieces.

A particularly loud rumble of thunder crashed through the skies outside, as if reminding them of the presence of the storm outside. But it was enough to snap the two back into the present. They didn't release the hand of the other, but they blinked and started breathing again as they realized that no, nothing was going to be shattering this dream.

John was the first to speak. His lips broke into a flustered smile as he suddenly felt slightly embarrassed. His eyes looked at their joined hands and he squeezed lightly.

"Um..I guess you can take a fairly educated guess who."

Sherlock answered his smile with one of his own, although now joy had overtaken his eyes and they almost glimmered.

"I never guess, John."

The shorter man couldn't help laughing as Sherlock's self assured voice returned to normal. The sound broke the tension that had built up in the room and soon Sherlock joined him until the two were almost bent over one another, bodies shaking with merriment.

When they finally managed to gather their wits about themselves once more, John took a deep breath. He noticed that their hands were still joined and he tried to pull away, but Sherlock held firm, no longer with his fingers on John's pulse, instead wrapping them around John's wrist completely. John couldn't help but take note the difference in size between their hands.

Sherlock cleared his throat and he glanced at John. He looked slightly lost, not sure, but the way he worried his lips told John he didn't quite know how to voice what was bothering him.

"What's on your mind?"

With his eyes focused on their connected hands, Sherlock tried to gather his thoughts enough to put them into words. This was difficult, this wasn't territory he normally tread and the words he wanted to say felt foreign.

"I'm...John I've never...I mean, I'm not sure."

Sherlock looked up at John, willing the man to understand through his broken words. Thankfully, John managed to piece his meaning together.

"Well, it's my first time attempting a relationship with another man too...but if you're willing to try..."

Sherlock felt a swelling of something in his chest and he was taken aback at how powerful it was. Blurriness overtook his vision and he blinked in surprise at the wetness in his eyes. Of course he had heard of the so called, crying from joy, but he never experienced it himself and always thought it a ludicrous notion. Now, it didn't seem quite so ludicrous anymore.

He answered John with a nod, still clutching tightly to John's wrist.

"Yes. Always. Just the two of us..."

The other man's face broke into a smile and his eyes seemed to dance as he gave Sherlock's hand a responding squeeze.

"...against the world."

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><p><em>Oh my god...it's done. <em>

_*Falls over*_

_I might do an epilogue with their first time together, because who doesn't love some first time smut. Haha~ _

**_Thanks for reading!_**


	4. Chapter 4: Sherlock and John Always

**Epilogue warnings:**  
>This epilogue was mostly written just for smut, so...yeah. It's crazy fluffy, dash of angst caused by insecure Sherlock, and I really think I wrote them out of character but it's so bloody hard writing them in character where smut is involved. But anyway, if you're in the mood for fluffy, long-winded smut, then go ahead.<p>

Un-beta'ed (actually, all my stuff's un-beta'ed ._.) and I wrote this over several days, so it might be kind of jumpy.

* * *

><p><strong>EPILOGUE:<strong>

**SHERLOCK HOLMES AND JOHN WATSON. ALWAYS.**

John had always wondered what kind of family had spawned the likes of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. It was hard to imagine them as kids. Did they play like other kids? Climb trees? Break bones? Fight over action figures? Pull pranks? Did they stay up on Christmas Eve to try and catch Santa Clause? Did they listen to fairy tales and play pretend? Did they build snowmen and have snowball fights in the winter? Did they take family trips to exotic countries, taking photos that are now shoved away in long forgotten albums? John had a hard time imagining any of that, and it had been quite shocking for him to find out that the parents of the Holmes household turned out to be quite...ordinary, particularly when compared to the two sons. Prior to catching a glimpse of Mr. and Mrs Holmes before Sherlock had hurried them out of the flat, John had had some crazy notion that perhaps Sherlock and Mycroft just...appeared one day.

So when Sherlock had muttered that his parents had invited John to their house for Christmas break, John had jumped at the chance, despite Sherlock's protests. His eyes practically glowed at the prospect that he was going to finally have a chance to sit down and get to know the parents of the great Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. In his mind he ran through questions he wanted to ask, and he silently hoped that Mr. and Mrs. Holmes would adoringly show him photos of the two men as kids, because he had no doubt it would be delightfully hilarious.

Sherlock had treated the oncoming vacation like an execution. He sulked and grumbled, attempting every way to convince John that it was better to spend the break in their flat. His parents would be loud, annoying, they'd pry and fuss, wouldn't John prefer the comfort of a quiet vacation? Plus, Mycroft would be there too, apparently the Holmes were having a reunion this year, and did John really want to hang around with big brother Holmes? It would be awful, Sherlock assured him, a disaster, like torture. John had simply smirked at Sherlock's dramatic displays of terror at the thought of having to spend time with his family, but firmly put his foot down. Christmas with the Holmes, Sherlock wasn't wriggling his way out of this one.

To be honest, John had been hoping that over this vacation he and Sherlock would have some time alone. It had been several weeks since that stormy evening when he and Sherlock had...confessed...to each other. John cringed at that word, 'confess', it sounded so...high school. Confessions were what kids did in love letters that they shakily handed to the object of their affections, it hardly described what he and Sherlock had gone through. But in any case, that evening had opened doors that John never even realized existed.

John was excited, but at the same time frightened. There were too many unknown factors to him, he felt like he was standing on a trap door that could open at any moment and send him flying downwards. From what Sherlock had said that evening, John had gathered that the man hadn't ever been in a serious relationship before, much less with another man. John was accustomed to dating women and knew what to expect as well as what was expected, but with a man? With Sherlock of all people? John was at a loss. Suddenly he started to feel self conscious. Physical contact had turned from friendly to awkward, even pats on the shoulder or a brush of their hands felt strange. Never before did he think it odd when his shoulders bumped against Sherlock's or if Sherlock grabbed his arm in the midst of pursuing a criminal, but now whenever his and Sherlock's body came into contact both of them would freeze before one of them pulled away awkwardly.

When he used to go out with the ladies, John would feel comfortable slipping a hand around a slim waist, brushing a strand of hair behind an ear, grasping soft hands in his, pressing soft kisses to their foreheads or sneaking the quick peck to the lips. That was normal, it was expected. But with Sherlock...? Trying to picture himself walking down Baker Street hand in hand with the taller man or showing any form of public displays of affection made him feel torn between wanting to laughing at the bizarreness of the image and blush from embarrassment. Scotland Yard would explode with gossip if he were to ever show up at a crime scene arm around Sherlock's waist like two lovers out on a stroll. He felt like he needed to sit down with Sherlock and seriously discuss just where all of this was going with the man. What was he comfortable with? What did he want from this relationship? Did he want others to know? John needed answers because the last thing he wanted was to push Sherlock too far into something he didn't want. For his part, John felt he was willing to accommodate Sherlock to the best of his ability. Clearly this was territory the other man was unfamiliar with and John would probably need to help him along, like how Sherlock helps him when it came to cases and observations.

"Sherlock's right, you do think incredibly loudly."

The flat observation startled John and he quickly looked up from his seat in front of the Holmes' fireplace to find Mycroft peering down at him. The man was standing beside the mantle, leaning against the wall with one leg crossed over the other. John wasn't sure when he got there and he was slightly fearful just how much the man had deduced. He and Sherlock hadn't openly announced anything to anyone, but John would be surprised if Mycroft hadn't already figured it out. The downside of being around the Holmes boys, secrets became impossibly difficult to keep.

"Sorry, what?"

John carefully schooled his expression, trying to feign ignorance.

"I left the kitchen because Sherlock's in there obsessing over you in his thoughts, only to find you here in the living room, obsessing over him. What a lovely pair you make."

Obsessing? John tried to look affronted. Who's obsessing?

"...Don't know what you're talking about, Mycroft. Did Sherlock spike your drink?"

A dramatic eye roll met his denial.

"Oh John, do spare me your little act. You have no talent for acting. Did you honestly believe you were capable of hiding your new...relationship with Sherlock? Everything in your body language gives you away."

Frowning, John looked down at himself, wondering what it was exactly that was giving him away. What exactly did Mycroft see that he was missing? Some crease in his shirt? Extra centimetre of eye twitch? What?

"Stop it before you hurt yourself. Leave the deducing to Sherlock, John."

Giving up on trying to deceive the older Holmes, John leaned back into the armchair and regarded the man with exasperated eyes.

"Fine, well since you know, what was I obsessing on exactly?"

Mycroft took a sip of his drink, rolling the flavour over his tongue.

"What everyone in a relationship obsesses over. Where is the relationship going? Is it going too fast? Too slow? Is the other person satisfied? Should you sit and discuss the relationship? Or is it suppose to just flow naturally? Should I go on?"

John glared sulkily. Trust Mycroft to hit every point and make it sound like they were the most ridiculous worries in the world. Well, to the British government John figured the relationship between one consulting detective and an ex-military doctor really doesn't hold much fascination.

"Sherlock's not...made for human relationships, John."

Mycroft's voice suddenly lowered and he stared into his drink.

John's glare turned into a hard frown as he leveled Mycroft with a warning gaze.

"How would you know?"

Mycroft didn't seem bothered and simply shrugged.

"Some people are born with the abilities to excel in certain fields, but in return for that they have pieces missing. Sherlock is one of them, John. He excels where humans fail, seeking out facts and forming conclusions from them, but he's like a child where humans excel, maneuvering through the complexities of human interaction."

John shook his head.

"That's ridiculous. No one excels at that, all of us do a balancing act when it comes to dealing with one another. We give some, and take some, and sometimes we get hurt, but that's a risk we willingly take because to find another person, even just one, whom we can trust and rely on, that is worth the risk."

Mycroft smiled without mirth, a mere uplift of the corner of his lips.

"A romantic indeed. Are you sure you want to trust yourself in the hands of Sherlock Holmes? Is he really the person you want to rely on?"

John matched Mycroft's smile.

"I seem to remember that you asked me something very similar our first meeting. At that time I asked you 'who said I trust him', but this time I have a different answer, Mycroft. I do trust him. I put all my trust in Sherlock Holmes."

Before Mycroft could reply, Mrs. Holmes bustled into the room with a bowl of snacks. She placed it on the coffee table then graced Mycroft with a scolding gaze.

"Oh Mike stop bothering John. I taught you to be a better host than that. Go make yourself useful in the kitchen and help your dad with the cooking. Lots to get ready for the big dinner tonight."

She then turned and smiled warmly at John.

"Never you mind him, dear. Have some snacks to hold you until the food's ready, won't be long now. You know, I've asked Sherlock so many times before to bring you over and it seems like he's always too busy. I can't tell you how awful it is, having two sons that never come to visit at all, imagine! And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, having to hear from Mycroft that our baby has finally got himself a nice boyfriend, it's such a relief but I do wish he'd have at least told us himself. Oh it's so lovely he has someone to look after him now, he looks so much healthier now than before."

John sputtered as his face heated up. He glared hard at Mycroft, who only replied with a smug smile. Quickly, he grabbed his cup of tea, trying to pretend he was drinking to hide his embarrassment, inwardly grimacing since the tea had gone cold long ago.

Thankfully, Sherlock chose this moment to join them, relieving John from the obligation of having to come up with a response.

"I didn't say anything because I knew Mycroft would. The big mouth, never could keep anything to himself."

"Oh but Sherlock, how selfish it would be of me to keep such delightful news to myself. Good news ought to be spread around, isn't that right, mummy?"

John really wanted to just disappear. Good god, if Sherlock knew Mycroft would be outing them to the entire family the git could have given him some warning.

Sherlock swiped up the bowl of snacks his mother had put down and riffled through the contents, looking for something to eat. He plopped himself on the carpeted floor next to the coffee table and half in front of John's armchair. John had to shuffle his legs to the side a bit to make room, but Sherlock didn't seem to care.

"And here I was beginning to despair that there would be anyone in the world who can put up with you boys. You are both such handfuls, I swear."

Mrs. Holmes winked at John who couldn't do much but smile back, flustered. Admittedly Mrs. Holmes seemed to be taking the news quite well and John was slightly relieved that Mycroft had saved him and Sherlock the trouble of having to break the news to Sherlock's parents.

Sherlock didn't bother responding, busying himself with his snacks, and John hurried to change the subject.

"Uhm, uh, lovely home you have, Mrs. Holmes. It's quite charming."

The two Holmes boys secretly snickered at John's blatant attempt to maneuver the conversation to safer grounds.

"Thank you dear, it's nothing much but I am quite fond of this place. Never could stand all the people and noise of the city, it's so stifling. Not sure how Mike and Sherlock can stand living there to be honest."

"Mycroft, mother. The name is Mycroft. Why do you always insist on shortening my name and yet you never do it to Sherlock?"

Mrs. Holmes reached over and tried to ruffle Sherlock's curls, to which the man huffed and jerked away.

"Well we tried calling him Billy, that's his first name after all, but he threw such a fit, complaining that his older brother had such a unique name and insisted we call him Sherlock instead. Billy's so dull and ordinary he said."

John's eyebrows shot to his hairline as he stared openly at Sherlock.

"Billy? His first name's Billy? I...just assumed it was Sherlock..."

Mrs. Holmes smiled understandingly.

"Oh, no. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, that's his name."

"Mother!"

Sherlock's voice was practically panicked as he quickly stood up and physically pushed his mother towards the kitchen.

"I believe that's father calling for you now, yes, off you go, food to cook and all that."

John couldn't keep the mirth from his expression and he chuckled, noting the slight flush of colour over Sherlock's prominent cheeks.

"William...I can't believe it took me this long to find out your first name, Sherlock. Were you ever planning to tell me?"

The curly haired man turned after hurrying his mother from the room and pouted.

"It had been my hope that you never find out. And if you ever utter a word of it to anyone..."

John laughed at the threat.

"Stop being so competitive, Sherlock. It's a name for chrissakes, it's ridiculous how you turn everything into a rivalry between us."

Mycroft sighed in exasperation.

Sherlock sneered at his older brother.

"Oh go eat some cookies, Mycroft. Go ruin your diet and stop bothering John. And for your information, I was not obsessing."

Mycroft glanced between Sherlock and John for a moment more before he straightened.

"Hm. I need to refill my drink."

Without further delay, he turned and headed after his mother towards the kitchen, leaving Sherlock and John alone in the room.

The fire crackled softly and John was thankful for the silence. He appreciated the human aspect that Mrs. Holmes and her husband brought to this family. Whereas Sherlock and Mycroft seemed like lone wolves, holding everyone at a distance, the two elder Holmes were warm and friendly, hospitable and sincere. John enjoyed their company and hoped he would get to know them more as time went on.

"I tried to warn you."

Sherlock's voice made him look over at the man, who had returned to his spot on the floor. He lazily picked out a mini candy cane and popped the straight end into his mouth, wrapping his index finger around the curved part of the cane.

"Warn me? I don't recall any warning that Mycroft was going to out us to your parents. I didn't even know Mycroft knew!"

"Oh please, as if anything would escape Mycroft. Although I didn't foresee him tattling to mom and dad. I thought he might try blackmailing me with it first."

John hesitated.

"Does...does it bother you? That they know, I mean? I guess...we never did talk about whether or not we're going to tell others."

Sherlock gazed at him from the corner of his eyes. He bit down on the end of the candy cane, making a loud crunch as the candy broke in his mouth.

"Why would it bother me? Two people in a relationship, can't get anymore...normal than that. Possibly one of the most normal things I've ever engaged in in my life."

John laughed a little. Yeah, he can imagine.

He reached over and, before Sherlock could protest, stole the uneaten half of the candy cane out of Sherlock's hand. Without thinking he put the sweet in his own mouth, enjoying the explosion of peppermint on his tongue. His eyes watched Sherlock the whole time, never breaking their gaze. Sherlock shifted from sitting on the floor and instead leaned up, kneeling in front of his armchair. His expression was contemplative, as if he was searching John for the answer to something. He raised a hand and hovered it over John's leg, not sure whether it was OK to touch, was it too intimate? Would it make John uncomfortable?

John's eyes glided from Sherlock's face to his hand. With a soft smile he put his own hand over the other man's, bringing both of them down on his leg. He felt Sherlock shaking, just slightly, the warmth of his touch seeping through his pants and making him tingle. Caught in the moment, John told his mind to shut up for a second and leaned forward, catching Sherlock off guard as his lips gently brushed over the younger man's. Peppermint. He didn't try to push, just a touch of affection.

Sherlock was stiff, almost afraid to move, even his breathing stopped. John felt the hand under his still, radiating nervousness and he gave the man a comforting squeeze, letting him know that everything's OK. Slowly, John felt Sherlock breathe again, and very slightly he moved his head forward, meeting John's lips and kissing back. Before John realized it, his free hand had moved to wrap around the nape of Sherlock's neck, the soft curls tickling his fingers. He wanted to bury his hand in those tantalizing strands, but restrained himself, telling himself he needed to take this slow.

The kiss was almost shy, a test of themselves as well as the other. John's eyes fell shut and all he could sense were the peppermint scent and something distinctly Sherlock. The lips under his were soft, and it sent a thrill through the ex-soldier that from these lips spilled such genius deductions the world has never seen. This man...this brilliant man was his...all his.

Sherlock felt John's hand on his neck, guiding him gently. He was no stranger to kissing of course, but this was the first time kissing simply for the sake of kissing, and with a man no less. He could handle the clash of lips in the heat of passion, had used that many times before to seduce women for cases, but this...this slow dance seemed so much more intimate.

Reluctantly, they pulled apart, both feeling slightly out of breathe even though the kiss had been fairly chaste. The moment stretched as crystal blue eyes met John's earnest gaze, both trying to think of something to say, but coming up blank. No words seemed enough to express what they wanted to.

"Dinner's on, you two! Wash up!"

Mrs. Holmes' voice broke the moment and they both physically gasped as it felt like their breathes came back to them in a woosh of air.

Mycroft chose that moment to peek into the room, no doubt being told by his mother to hurry his brother up to the dinner table. He took one look at their positions, rolled his eyes in exasperation then retreated back, muttering about hormones.

John felt his face flush at being caught like a school boy and he prayed Mycroft would not be sharing what he saw with the Holmes parents this time. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed unbothered. He licked his lips and flicked his eyes towards the kitchen.

"Might be wise to continue that later."

John coughed and nodded.

"Um...yeah...later's..good..."

He shushed the little flare of joy hearing that Sherlock's up for more 'later' as Sherlock stood up, wobbling a bit as his legs had fallen asleep in his kneeling position. John hurriedly stood up too and steadied the taller man with a hand on his arm. They shared a smile before heading towards the kitchen where the smell of food wafted temptingly from.

~*~AFTER DINNER~*~

Sherlock sighed as the retreating sounds of his parents' footsteps faded away. Dinner had been more or less uneventful. His parents fussed over John, while he and Mycroft traded insults. Just as he had feared, his mom had relegated John with tales of his childhood, the time he had 'kidnapped' Mycroft and pretended to make him walk the plank, the time Mycroft had tricked him by planting a treasure map in his room, sending him on a wild goose chase, the time he got kicked out of class for arguing with his science teacher other the uselessness of learning the solar system, the time he had made a girl in his class cry when she tried to give him a love letter and he had told her love is merely a chemical reaction in her brain. Sherlock was fully aware of the amused glances John kept shooting his way, but he stubbornly avoided eye contact. He was never going to live this down. So it had been with relief when dinner wrapped up and Mycroft hurried back to his office at the first chance he got, and his parents finally made their way up to their room to retire for the day. Sherlock had been afraid they'd start showing off old photographs next.

Now he was back in the living room, sitting on the sofa nursing a cup of hot coffee. His eyes danced over the Christmas tree his parents had decorated, as a child Sherlock never understood the significance of this holiday and he still didn't. It was based on a made up story that made no sense, and rooted in traditions that involved lying to children and making them irrational. What kid would be foolish enough to believe a fat guy in a suit can fly around in a sleigh and leave presents for all the children in the world in one night? Utter lunacy. Yet for some reason, it seemed like such a big deal for everyone and Sherlock usually got dragged into at least one or two social gatherings despite his best efforts.

"Wow, that was one of the best Christmas dinners I've had in recent years. Your parents are amazing hosts, Sherlock."

John walked in from the kitchen where he had been helping himself to another cup of tea. He set down the steaming cup on the side table and settled himself on the sofa next to Sherlock. He could feel the drowsiness after eating too much starting to creep up on him and he just felt so content at the moment.

"Just so you know, if you ever repeat any of those stories my parents told you, I will blatantly deny all of it."

Sherlock warned the other man. Heaven forbid if Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson got ahold of any of those tales.

John grinned at Sherlock, his eyes practically dancing.

"Rest assured, Sherlock, I'd never share your dark secrets with anyone else. They're much too precious for that."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and drank his coffee, slightly too quickly and he coughed as the hot liquid burned his tongue. John hurried and took the cup from him before it could spill during his coughing fit, putting it next to his own tea cup.

"Whoa there, slow down."

He patted Sherlock's back without thinking, trying to sooth the coughs, but even as they stopped he didn't take his hand away.

Sherlock took several breaths and turned to face John. The warm hand on his back was comforting. Suddenly the air between them seemed warmer than before.

"Sherlock...I..."

John paused, unsure what to say. Sherlock's lips were red and slightly swollen from getting burned, and John suddenly felt the urge to lean into and catch those lips against his own. At the same time, he wanted to talk, there was so much he wanted to talk about with the other.

"You've been worried."

Sherlock observed.

John blinked.

"Worried?"

"Yes. Ever since that day...you've been jumpy. You don't feel as confident being with me as you do with women."

John sighed. Oh yeah, he forgot, this was Mr. Mind-Reader he was with, he hardly needed to say anything and the other man seemed to understand it all.

"Sherlock...I'm...I just don't want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Or...or hurt you, god I really don't want to hurt you."

Sherlock's brows wrinkled.

"Hurt me? John, you've never done anything that hurt me. Contrarily, I would say I have done exactly that, several times, from performing experiments on you to...to...that time I..uh...jumped...from Barts. Your worries are unfounded."

John shook his head.

"OK, let's just put that aside for a moment. It's not true that I've never hurt you, Sherlock, and I didn't even realize I was hurting you. I got married, and forced you to a front row seat, without realizing at all how much that must have hurt you. I was blind and ignored your feelings. It must have been awful for you."

Sherlock didn't miss a beat.

"Your self blame is irrational. I purposely did not tell you anything, I accepted your request to be best man, I made those decisions of my own volition, you have no reason to hold yourself responsible for any of that."

John smiled as he regarded Sherlock's face. He stated everything so matter of factly, that self confidence made it hard to argue with him.

"But as your someone close to you, I should have known without needing you to expressly say it, Sherlock. I should have seen the signs or at least felt...something. I mean, you know things about me all the time without me needing to say it."

Sherlock shrugged.

"I don't expect anyone to have similar deductive skills as me. Well, expect Mycroft."

Laughter fell from John's lips. Right, of course.

"But...but because the last time you didn't tell me...now I'm afraid..."

Sherlock regarded him for a moment.

"You're afraid I would hide again from you any discomfort I feel now."

John nodded. Yes, that summarizes it quite nicely.

"Sherlock...you need to understand. I can't read people as well as you. Least of all you, I mean you're so good at hiding things...I need to know that you will tell me, actually tell me in words what you want, and not just go along with what you think I want. I need you to tell me what you feel, and don't tell me you don't have feelings because I know that's utter rubbish. If something makes you happy, makes you feel good, tell me. If something is making you unhappy or uncomfortable, I need you to tell me that too. Can you do that?"

Sherlock gnawed on his bottom lip as he processed John's words. What he wanted...what he...felt...hm. That certainly wasn't what he was used to, even thinking about his own feelings felt foreign to him, but if that's what John needed from him...

"I...I'll try, but it's not exactly my area of expertise. I shall have to look into expanding my vocabulary pool regarding this subject. You'll do the same, then? I mean, that's only fair."

Sherlock's wide eyed gaze was so innocent that John couldn't help chuckling and leaning in to press his lips against the corner of the other man's mouth. Sometimes Sherlock can be so adorable without even realizing it.

"Yes, I'll try to do the same. I guess we're both not the best at expressing our feelings, are we? But we'll have to try for this to work."

Sherlock's eyes flickered from John's lips to his eyes, pursing his mouth.

"Then I think it's relevant to inform you that I found the kiss earlier pleasant. I...I kept thinking about it...during dinner. I think Mycroft might have caught me zoning out a few times."

John laughed at how seriously Sherlock related the information to him, like submitting a report. Well, he was glad to hear that Sherlock didn't seem adverse to physical contact between them, and if he found kissing pleasant...well...

He took advantage of the hand he still had on Sherlock's back and guided the man forward. The kiss started softly, gentle pecks of affection. Slowly, John deepened the touches, running his tongue over Sherlock's lips. He felt the taller man's quiet gasp, a sharp exhale of breath from parted lips, and he took the chance to dip his tongue inside the other's mouth, reveling in how hot it felt.

Sherlock almost moaned as he felt John's tongue slide into his mouth. He brushed his own against the older man's, the two of them teasing each other seductively. One of Sherlock's hands came up and cradled John's neck, pulling him in closer. A shiver coursed through his body as he suddenly realized this is the first time he's engaged in something so intimate with someone simply for the sake of it, and not for any alternative purpose. He suddenly wanted to feel John's hands on him, touching him in other places, touching him in places he's never allowed anyone else to.

John sensed the subtle tremor in Sherlock's body and he pulled back just a bit. He opened his eyes and waited until Sherlock opened his, noting that the man's pupils were so dilated that they appeared almost completely black. His free hand brushed over Sherlock's jaw, his thumb caressing the kiss swollen lips.

"Was that...OK?"

The older man's voice was low and husky, hesitant as if words would break the spell that had been cast upon them.

Sherlock didn't trust his voice to reply and he simply nodded. He licked his lips, swiping his tongue over John's thumb in the process, assessing John's reaction.

Pulse, elevated. Pupils, dilated. Breathing, heavier than normal. His body was instinctively attempting to take in more oxygen. All indicative signs that John was aroused, responding to the physical stimulation of the kiss as well as the psychological anticipation of what was to come.

John stretched up, this time aiming to nip and kiss along his jaw.

"Stop thinking, Sherlock. This isn't a science experiment."

John's low voice whispered into Sherlock's ear, the hot breath making him shiver.

Sherlock blinked in surprise, catching John's amused glance.

"I wasn't...how did you..?"

John laughed softly at his confused expression. Finally, he managed to catch the genius off guard.

"Try and give that brilliant brain of yours one night off, hm?"

Sherlock tilted his head back as he felt John continue to caress his jaw, moving slowly down to his neck, scattering kisses along his path. He was starting to find that coherent thoughts were becoming harder and harder to form, they kept getting interrupted. The chemicals no doubt playing havoc on his neurotransmitters.

"I...uhn...J..John...but...are you..sure?"

The hesitancy in his voice immediately made John stop and he pulled away, concerned eyes seeking out his. Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to clear his head so he can form a full question to clarify.

"You've always been so adamant that you weren't gay. This...I mean, I don't mind, if you don't want to."

John regarded him closely. He grasped one of Sherlock's hands in his and brought it up to his chest, laying it palm flat against where his heart was. Sherlock could feel the organ pounding below the surface, racing to pulse blood through John's body.

"Sherlock...I want to. If you want to."

The words were clear as crystal, no hesitation, no uncertainty. The voice of someone who's made a decision and is now completely confident of it.

Sherlock clenched his fingers in John's shirt and pulled him forward. This time their lips met with much more force than before. A sudden burst of desire erupted between them as Sherlock took advantage of his height and started to lean himself into John. John clasped both hands tightly around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulled him down, sucking and teasing at delicious lips. Sherlock fell forward, one hand still pressed on John's chest, the other braced on the sofa. He felt his own body reacting, a flush of heat to his groin that came from more than just the physical touches. He groaned as he felt John's own hardness pressing against his stomach, and the fingers of the hand on John's chest hurriedly tried to undo the row of buttons single-handedly.

John shifted and started leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses to Sherlock's ear, running his tongue along the shell and biting gently. He then moved to that beautiful slender neck, butterfly kisses interspersed with fierce bites, only to be soothed by swipes of his tongue. He had no doubt Sherlock was going to be sporting some lovely love bites tomorrow. He felt Sherlock's deft fingers fumbling with his buttons and he forced himself to pause.

"Sh..Sherlock...bedroom...should..go..."

The curly haired man also stopped his tugging, burying his face against the curve of John's neck to breathe in the other man's scent. Yes, bedroom. Better to continue in the bedroom before things got really out of hand. His parents were rather accepting, but find him and John naked on their living room sofa tomorrow morning might make things awkward...that or they'd take the chance to snap photos. He pushed himself up with effort, panting and shaking his head to get rid of the haze of lust clouding his vision.

"Yes, bedroom. Now. Move."

John smirked at the impatience in his soon to be lover's voice and jumped up off the couch. The two practically giggled like school boys as they raced for the stairs, fumbling their way up, while at the same time trying to be quiet so as not to wake Sherlock's parents. Unable to keep their hands to themselves, the two pulled and tugged, pushed and shoved at each other all the way until they burst into Sherlock's bedroom and he quickly shut the door. Wordlessly John tossed off his jumper, not caring where it landed, undoing the buttons on his shirt that had given Sherlock so much trouble. Sherlock, in turn, shrugged off his suit jacket, but his hands halted at the top button of his own shirt. In the dim light of the bedroom Sherlock let his eyes run over John's torso. As flatmates he had seen John shirtless before, but he never thought much of it. Now...now his body didn't quite receive the sight so calmly. His hands ached to touch, to feel every part of that body. Sherlock had never felt himself so fascinated by the physical body of anyone else, he always thought the mind was what mattered most. But at the same time, he couldn't help the small pull of nervousness showing John his own body. The man had yet to find the scars on his back, and Sherlock wasn't sure what he will say upon discovering them. He didn't think John would be adverse to them, but if John started asking questions regarding how Sherlock came to receive them in the first place Sherlock wasn't sure how much he wanted to reveal.

The cool air against his bare skin made John long for the warmth of having Sherlock nearby again and he turned, holding an arm out for the taller man. He raised an eyebrow questioningly, noting Sherlock's movements had stopped.

"Sherlock? Everything OK?"

Slowly, the detective nodded, carefully undoing the buttons one by one along the front of his shirt. He moved to be next to the shorter man, leaning down and pressing a soft, firm kiss to a bare shoulder. John sighed contently, his hands sliding under Sherlock's shirt to push the soft fabric from the other man's body. Wrapping his arms tightly around the slim waists, he pulled the man close their chests flush against one another. His fingers traced up Sherlock's back, expecting smooth skin covering lean muscles, but instead he felt the bumps and grooves of...

Surprised, John looked up and saw that Sherlock was carefully avoiding his eyes. In fact, those beautiful sky coloured eyes were closed, and his mouth was pulled taut, tense.

"Sherlock..? Sherlock, look at me."

Reluctantly his demand was met but Sherlock still looked so...nervous...scared? Was that fear he saw in the detective's delicate features?

Without saying anything, Sherlock turned in his embrace, and John's breath caught. The beautiful pale skin of Sherlock's back was mapped with crisscrossed scars, some clearly older than others. Some places, it seems the wounds had been severe enough to gouge out flesh. Almost fearful that he would hurt Sherlock if he touched, John carefully laid his hand flat against the tortured flesh, fingers tracing over the lines. Oh God...who had...

"Sherlock...what happened? Who did this?"

His voice trembled and John wasn't sure if it was from pain or anger. He knew Sherlock's job wasn't the safest in the world, but this? This was...John didn't even see these kinds of wounds in Afghanistan. These were clearly marks of torture, injuries meant to hurt and not kill. Who had tortured Sherlock? HIS Sherlock?

Sherlock turned back to face John. He tried to shrug and smile, as if to say that it was no big deal, but he couldn't meet John's eyes.

"Mostly from the two years I was away dismantling Moriarty's allies. I had to, I had to make sure they were all gone otherwise any one of them could have come back to threaten you here. But...you know, dealing with terrorist organizations and crime syndicates, not the most hospitable people. Especially when they found out I was there to get rid of them."

John gripped Sherlock's chin and stopped the man from looking away.

"You were tortured by them because you went to get rid of them...to protect me? And you never told me? And then you got...got THIS.."

John gently brushed a hand over Sherlock's bullet scar right below his ribs to indicate what he meant.

"..from...my wife. Yet you still tried so hard to make me forgive her...because you thought that I loved her and a family with her would make me happy."

Sherlock wasn't sure if John expected a reply from him, he dropped his gaze to the floor, would John be angry at him again? John hated being deceived, and it seems that that was all Sherlock ever did. He said the only thing he could think of.

"Sorry."

John looked at him in disbelief. 'Sorry'? Sherlock was...apologizing? After everything he went through, he was apologizing? John wanted to laugh at how ludicrous it all was. Instead, he pulled Sherlock against him, burying his face against the man's chest as he tried so hard to stop himself from crying. No, John Watson did not cry, his eyes might get teary, he might sniffle and get choked up, but he did not cry.

"You...you stupid...stupid...utterly ridiculous completely idiotic dickhead."

Not sure what to do, Sherlock brought his arms around John and simply hugged him. He pressed comforting kisses to the top of John's head.

"John...I'm sorry..I'm sorry...whatever it is, I won't do it again. Forgive me."

With a determined shove, John propelled Sherlock backwards onto the bed.

"You better not do it again, William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

Sherlock groaned and glared at John.

"You're not going to let that name go, are you?"

John grinned as he hopped onto the bed, straddling Sherlock's slim hips.

"Not a chance."

He leaned down and pressed a firm kiss to the little hollow between Sherlock's collar bones, lapping at it with his tongue. God, how could he have been so blind before towards Sherlock's feelings for him? It should have smacked him upside the head and yet it took nearly losing him...twice, for him to realize.

Sherlock let his head fall back against the mattress, his slender fingers burying into John's hair and holding him close. He could feel John's weight on him, it was comforting, grounding him, and he loved it. The cool sheets on his back were a nice contrast to the rising temperature of his body and he moaned when he felt John's teeth graze over the pulse at his neck. Without realizing, Sherlock's hips lifted, pressing against John and making both of them gasp as the stimulation sent sparks through their bodies. One of John's hands trailed down Sherlock's body, lightly teasing a nipple along the way. Sherlock shivered and bit his lip, swallowing hard. When did his mouth become so dry?

With a soft tug, Sherlock pulled John back up, yearning for more kisses. He liked feeling John's mouth over his, that warmth covering him, enveloping him, telling him that John was actually here, this wasn't some dream or fantasy. John indulged him, pressing sloppy kisses against his open mouth, dipping his tongue in and lapping at the hungry detective's mouth. God, he needed more, so much more,

The hand on Sherlock's chest moved lower, aiming straight for the dress pants. He unhooked the button and thumbed the zipper down, groaning as he felt his hand brush over Sherlock's length. Fuck, the man was hard. John never really thought Sherlock to be a very sexual man, thought maybe he just wasn't interested in pleasures of the flesh since his 'transport' meant so little to him, which was why John had been so blown away by his little display with Janine, but now here was proof that Sherlock felt desire and lust just like all the rest. Not only that, but he was desiring John, this bloody prodigy, beautiful, gorgeous, fantastic bloke desired John. The doctor almost cried at how insane that was.

Sherlock felt his pants come undone, groaning in relief as the tightness was relieved. He pushed up even more, grinding against John as his mouth sucked on the other's tongue like a starving cat. He reached his own hands down, grasping John's hips and pulling him down to give himself more leverage as he pushed up, and he felt the rumbling moan of pleasure from John's lips falling into his mouth.

"Sherlock...fuck..I need..."

John couldn't seem to get his words out coherently and instead he just tugged at Sherlock's pants trying to make his point.

Sherlock gave a curt nod, pushing down John's waistband too.

"Yes, your's too, off, now."

John let out a shaky laugh as he rolled off Sherlock to kick off his trousers along with his boxers and socks. He huffed when he was finally completely naked, laying on the bed for a few seconds to watch Sherlock and catch his breath.

As the lean detective sat up to shed his own pants, John marveled at how pale he really was. True John had never seen Sherlock show more skin than necessary, he never even worn short sleeved shirts outdoors, but his paleness was almost alarming. It made the dark curls on his head stand out so much more, as well as that enticing patch of hair that settled around his hard length. John had to swallow as he found his breath caught, he had never found the male body attractive before, but God, the sight of Sherlock completely bare, no clothes to hide behind, totally his for the taking, John felt his own erection grow painfully hard just thinking about it.

Sherlock turned as soon as he had thrown his clothes somewhere on the floor, pouncing on John with a gleam in his eyes. His large hands pressed against John's biceps, holding him down on the bed as his knees settled on either side of John's thighs.

"Last chance. No backing out after this."

John rolled his eyes, as if anything short of Sherlock's parents bursting through the door can make him back out now. He raised a leg and gently nudged Sherlock's erection, making the man's head drop as he groaned. John smirked, yes, he needs to hear that sound more from Sherlock, that had to be the sexiest sound he's ever had the pleasure of hearing.

"No chance in hell."

Sherlock took the chance that his head was already down and started nipping along John's neck. Without thinking, John tilted his head back, his eyes sliding closed as he felt the soft curls of Sherlock's hair tickling his chin, shivering at the curious tongue that darted out to taste and tease at his sensitive throat. He bent his elbows and slide his fingers softly along Sherlock's sides, feeling the ribs and fully appreciating just how slim Sherlock really was. His upper arms were still pressed against the mattress by Sherlock, so he couldn't make full use of his hands, so instead kneed Sherlock's hardened length more, delighting at the way he could feel Sherlock's breath catch each time he pressed against the man's genitals.

Sherlock finally moved his hands as he explored down John's body. The man was much sturdier than his own lean frame, built up from military training. Some might call Sherlock androgynous, his slim waist and elegant strides making him almost feminine at times, but there was no mistaking John for anything but a man. Sherlock caught one of John's wandering hands in his own, pressing his lips against the rough palm, licking up the index finger before taking it into his mouth and sucking lightly. He heard John moan heatedly in response and smirked. Lightly he bit at the soft pads on the tip of the finger as he gazed up, realizing that John was watching him with completely fascinated eyes.

Not breaking eye contact, Sherlock pulled his head back, releasing the finger and instead continued trailing kisses over the hand. This hand, that had held the gun and pulled the trigger...this hand that had saved Sherlock's life in so many ways mere hours after their first meeting...this hand that had brushed so softly...forlornly over his gravestone...

Almost sensing Sherlock's thoughts, John reached out his other hand and thumbed over Sherlock's cheek. He marveled at how those long, dark lashes brushed over the tall cheekbones whenever Sherlock's eyes shut, the enticing cupid bow of Sherlock's lips, caressing his skin and setting his nerves on fire. He tugged gently and Sherlock abandoned his worship of John's hand, instead stretching back up and littering small kisses around John's mouth, like a hungry kitten. He wanted...he needed...

"John...John..."

Sherlock's voice was a whisper as he exhaled the name, his hips pressing down into the shorter man's without realizing it.

Taking the chance that their bodies were pressed tightly together, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and rolled them over until he had the brunette on his back. Without pausing he reached down the hand that Sherlock had just moments ago been so fascinated with, brushing past the patch of dark hair and fingered the tip of Sherlock's erection.

The younger man almost mewled as his body jerked from the sudden touch, bucking up in an unconscious effort to seek more. His arms hurriedly wrapped around John's neck, clinging as his eyes snapped open. John grinned, pleased he could have such an effect on the mad genius. He danced his fingers over the tip, teasing and spreading the pre-cum that had gathered.

Sherlock groaned and he pulled John down, burying his face along the other's neck. His legs fell open invitingly and John felt a flood of heat as he realized Sherlock was trusting him with the most intimate part of his body. He stroked a hand through sweaty curls, pressing comforting kisses along Sherlock's neck. Before he went further, he needed to be sure Sherlock knew what he was asking, and that he was OK with it. Attempting to give the man a chance to clear his head, John moved his hand from Sherlock's length to run soothingly over his hips. Sherlock's panted, half relieved to have the teasing hand away, but half disappointed that the pleasurable sensations had stopped.

"Sherlock...look at me, I need you to look at me."

John had to swallow hard to get the words out. His throat had become so dry and trying to form words seemed like such a difficult task. For a long moment Sherlock didn't move. His arms still clung to John as his breath puffed over his neck in short pants. John didn't hurry him, continuing to stroke his hair as he waited for Sherlock to catch his breath. Slowly, the lanky arms loosened a fraction and Sherlock disentangled himself from John enough for John to see his face. The detective's usually calm features were flushed red, sweat dampen curls pasted to his forehead and his lips were red and swollen from him biting on them in an attempt to stop himself from voicing his pleasures too loudly. His eyes were hazy as he tried to focus on John.

"Sherlock, we never really talked about this before...but...do you...?"

John hesitated, not sure how to continue. This was definitely not a conversation he's ever had with anyone else before and now, even attempting to broach the subject was making him blush.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to jump start his brain into working. One trembling hand pressed a long, slim finger over John's lips halting his words. Even in his state Sherlock knew what John was worrying over, he just needed his brain and mouth to coordinate enough to voice his thoughts. He forced his thighs a little wider apart, lifting his legs to plan his feet flat on the bed. In this position he was spread wide, with John firmly between his pale legs. John felt Sherlock shift his position and when he realized what the man was offering he was surprised as his eyes suddenly blurred with tears. Sherlock removed his finger from John's lips and instead stretched up to lick at them.

"John...if you'll have me..."

John gulped and he had to fight the urge to lunge down and swoop up the other man in his arms to hug him so tightly until neither could breathe. Instead he squeezed his eyes shut, willing the swelling tears to quell. The younger man rubbed his shoulders, carefully trailing his fingers over John's bullet scar. He pressed kisses to the older man's forehead until John was calm enough to re-open his eyes and meet Sherlock's gaze.

"You're...you're sure? This is OK? It...it might hurt...this is my first time..."

Sherlock chuckled as his hands smoothed down John's back, trimmed nails lightly scratching.

"I trust you...only you."

John swooped down and caught those swollen lips in his, crushing their mouths together and making both of them moan from the intensity. Their tongues met and danced for dominance, teeth nipping and biting.

All doubt having been washed away, John's hand once more returned towards Sherlock's erection. This time he didn't tease, he wrapped his fingers firmly around the hardened length and slowly pumped up towards the tip.

Sherlock groaned into John's mouth, hips thrusting up into John's hand. He broke from the kiss and thrashed his head on the bed. John was entranced at the sight. He wanted to see more, wanted to push further, wanted to watch when he pushes himself into the deepest parts of this magnificent man.

Before John could react, Sherlock wrenched his hands up and dug them under his pillow. They emerged a second later holding a wooden box, carved delicately with what looked like intricate designs. A latch kept the lid closed but Sherlock fumbled hastily before jerking it open and grabbing some things out and tossing them on the bed beside John's free hand. It took a few tries before John realized that Sherlock had pulled out a bottle of lube and a condom. His eyes widened even as he sat up and his hands hurriedly grabbed the offered gifts.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock had shoved the box away by now, panting with one arm over his eyes.

"Mycroft. Christmas present. The sodding know-it-all."

Startled at the unexpected answer, John laughed and Sherlock pulled his arm away to glare at the man. The lithe man propped himself up on one elbow as his other hand made a beeline for John's cock, one delicate finger tracing the large vein that ran up the hardened organ. John almost fell on top of Sherlock as his body jerked. Sherlock returned John's earlier teasing, palming the tip of the engorged penis and deliberately spreading the sticky pre-cum all over the erection. John felt building pleasure roll through his body and his hands shook as he tried to pop open the lid on the bottle of lube. Sherlock seemed determined to make it as difficult as possible for John as he moved from John's length lower to his balls, gripping them in his hand and giving them a firm tug. John growled as he finally yanked open the lid, but Sherlock's actions made him accidentally squeeze the bottle too hard and the slippery lube squirted out, landing on Sherlock's stomach. The lanky detective laughed as John snapped shut the bottle and tossed it aside. He gave Sherlock a decidedly scolding glare as he scooped up the lube on the man's abdomen, warming it up in his hand. Sherlock grinned at him as he settled back, now leaning on both elbows as he watched. Excitement mixed with anxiety in his stomach and Sherlock forced himself to breathe, keeping his thighs as far apart as they can go. He had done some research on sex between men, of course, and knew he could expect discomfort at least, probably some pain too as John had warned. But he wanted this, no one in his life had ever made him actually want them, physically, only John, and he wanted to feel what it would be like to have another person inside him...to have John inside him.

John scooted down a bit to give himself some room to work with as he brought the hand with the lube closer to Sherlock's entrance. He could feel the slight tensing of Sherlock's muscles, knowing that the other man was nervous. Looking up, he met Sherlock's eyes and smiled reassuringly. He needed to make this as comfortable for Sherlock as he can, and without thinking he leaned down and brushed his lips over Sherlock's length. Sloppy kisses were pressed to the sensitive flesh before his lips closed over the head, his tongue swiping over the slit at the top. Sherlock's eyes flew open in surprise, he hadn't expected John to do that and his arms gave out sending him crashing back against the bed. Oh god...John was...John's mouth was...

Sherlock's hands fisted in the sheets as he tried hard not to thrust up, not wanting to accidentally choke John. Before he knew it, he felt cautious fingers circling his entrance, the lube making them slightly cold and slippery. His muscles clenched instinctively, wary towards anything being near such a vulnerable part of the body, but then, John began taking more of his cock into his hot mouth. Sherlock couldn't form any coherent thoughts, his world was reduced to those two points of his body, both under John's control. A guttural moan fell out of Sherlock as one of John's fingers finally breached the ring of muscles, slowly pressing inside. The discomfort wasn't anything Sherlock couldn't handle, but it was the thought that this was John with his finger inside him that sent Sherlock spiraling.

John moaned himself when he finally pressed a digit into Sherlock's body. It was so hot, and tight. Sherlock's body clamped down on him and he wondered if it was really possible to actually fit his cock inside, surely it will hurt? Carefully he pushed the finger in more, on guard for any sign from Sherlock that he was in pain or wanted John to stop. Trying to distract his lover from the probing digit John began sucking on Sherlock's penis, engulfing the organ between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

Finally, John managed to sheath his whole finger inside and he couldn't help but pull his head back to look down. It was incredibly. Sherlock's cock was red and leaking at the tip, and below his body gripped onto John unrelentingly. With a bit of concern, John looked up and tried to catch Sherlock's eyes.

"Sherlock..? Are you OK?"

The other man mewled as his length was exposed to the cool air, missing John's warm mouth. He wiggled a bit, adjusting to the feel of John's finger inside him. More...he needed more...

With a quick nod of his head Sherlock reached his hands down to palm his own cock, trying to regain some of the pleasure John's mouth had given him.

"More...John...hurry..."

That was all the convincing John needed. He gently pulled out of Sherlock's body and aligned two fingers this time, licking his lips as he watched Sherlock's entrance twitch with anticipation. As the two fingers entered, Sherlock had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out. This time the pressure was much more intense, and he felt his body having to stretch to accommodate. He was grateful when he felt John's hand cover his own over his erection, helping him stroke and distract his mind from the intruding fingers. He held himself still, telling himself to relax and to let John in.

The doctor was almost holding his breathe as he watched. By the time he had managed to seat his fingers in to the knuckle his body was covered in a thin layer of sweat. Just imagining himself pushing into that heat was making him heady and his cock dripped more pre-cum onto the bed at the image. Likewise, Sherlock's breathe was coming in shallow bursts, and he had thrown his head back, stretching his enticing throat as far as it could go.

Carefully, John pushed the two fingers in Sherlock's body open, scissoring them slightly. Sherlock groaned and one of his hands flew to his mouth, teeth clamping down on the back of his own hand. John leaned his body forward and rested his other hand on the bed.

"Sherlock...Sherlock look at me."

Hazy eyes met his in answer his request.

"Sherlock, are you OK? I can stop..."

Hastily Sherlock shook his head. No. No stopping, not after coming this far. He wasn't in pain, it was just incredibly intense and he was feeling overwhelmed, but not painful.

John reached up and pulled Sherlock's hand from his mouth, wincing at the teeth marks. Those are going to bruise tomorrow.

"Sherlock, talk to me. Let me know you're OK."

Sherlock swiped his tongue over his lips, trying to moisten them to answer John.

"Don't stop...don't...'m fine..."

As if to prove his point, Sherlock pushed himself down, forcing his body to take even more of John's fingers inside. The shift brought John's fingers in contact with the bundle of sensitive nerves sitting inside Sherlock and he suddenly felt like he had fire racing through his veins. Sherlock's hand clenched the bed sheets as his body arched off the bed, a stuttering gasp torn from his throat.

Startled, John almost jerked his fingers out until he realized that Sherlock wasn't reacting to pain. Quickly, he pushed his fingers in again, this time finding Sherlock's prostate with relative ease and brushed over it.

Sherlock couldn't even form full noises as his body was suddenly awash in feelings he had never experienced before. He felt something in the pit of his stomach, like a coil winding up for release and he hurriedly reached out, clasping onto the wrist of John's free hand desperately.

"Unnhh...J..John...st..stop...! I...can't...you..inside...inside...please...!"

From the broken words John managed to piece together what Sherlock wanted and he quickly pulled his fingers out. Sherlock's entrance clenched and relaxed as he did, the muscles trying to readjust to the sudden emptiness. The detective was almost sobbing although he wasn't sure why. Before he could fully come down from his high, however, he felt the cool dribble of lube being smoothed over his entrance. He hissed as the sudden coldness made him tense up and he peeked down to watch John squirt more of the slippery substance over his own cock. Sometime in between there he had managed to slide the condom on and Sherlock really had no idea when it had happened. Honestly, though, at this point he didn't even care. When he finally felt the brush of John's cock against his entrance Sherlock had to bite his lip. John was definitely bigger than two fingers, but bloody christ he needed this.

Using one hand John positioned himself over Sherlock's twitching hole, his other hand slid under Sherlock's thigh, opening the man up and keeping him spread. John nudged himself forward and growled in his throat as the heat and tightness enveloped the head of his cock.

"Oh fuck...fuck Sherlock...!"

John was sure it had to be painful for Sherlock given how tight it was, but he couldn't stop. His grip on the pale thigh will definitely leave bruises afterwards, but at the moment he really couldn't care. All he could think about was the velvety warmth that was pulling him in, enticing him to push further, plunge down more, keeping falling until he hit rock bottom. He wanted to snap his hips forward and sink into that welcoming heat, and only the knowledge that that would undoubtedly hurt Sherlock immensely kept him from doing so.

Sherlock was hovering on the edge between agony and euphoria. He felt like his body was being forcibly split in two as his muscles attempted to halt the intruding organ yet at the same time, pull it in. It was painful, he won't deny that, it bloody hurt, and yet knowing that he was willingly accepting this and that it was John pushing into him made him dizzy with ecstasy. Finally...finally...after so, so long, after everything they had gone through together, finally.

The coppery taste of blood infiltrated Sherlock's mouth as his teeth broke the skin on his lips. He didn't realize he had been biting down so hard, but he couldn't stop. As he felt John push further in, it was as if the air from his lungs were being forcibly expelled. He couldn't breathe but his mouth couldn't form any words. Panic lurked in the periphery and Sherlock started gasping, his hands reaching up desperately, hoping John will understand and help him. His fingers stretched as far as they could towards the blurry figure Sherlock knew was the doctor and he tried to scream out something...anything.

"J..Jo...JOHN!"

Immediately John knew something wasn't right and he froze, eyes quickly scanning over the man below him. He reached out and tangled his fingers with Sherlock's outstretched hands, squeezing them comfortingly. He bent down, letting his body act as a shield over Sherlock's, the other man was taller, but John was bulkier and he was feeling quite protective right now of the detective. Concern clouded his eyes as he saw that Sherlock had bitten through his own lip, and the corner of those beautiful eyes were quickly becoming pooled with unshed tears.

Sherlock's hands latched onto John's like a lifeline, as he tried to force oxygen into his body. He needed air, needed to get under control again. John slowly freed one hand, running his thumb over Sherlock's lips, gently wiping away the trickle of blood. As carefully as he could, John leaned up so as not to jar where he was still inserted into Sherlock, and pressed soft kisses over the abused lips. His hands cupped Sherlock's face and he peered into the blurry blue eyes.

"Sherlock..? Sherlock..I'm so sorry, did I hurt you? We can stop if it hurts...I don't want you in pain."

Sherlock finally managed to regain his breath, the lump in his throat disappearing after the pain of being penetrated eased once John stopped. He blinked a few times, feeling hot tears falling, before his eyes refocused enough to see John's worried face over him. He quickly shook his head, forcing himself to calm down. No, he didn't want to stop, he just needed to not let himself be overwhelmed, which was far too easy when John's involved.

"No..I'm fine, John, just...just lost my breathe for a minute."

"You're hurting..."

John began to protest. Sherlock was not fine, those were tears of pain and John had no desire to hurt Sherlock...he'd never forgive himself if he did. Sherlock shushed him with a quick kiss, his hands smoothing over John's face, along his jaw and cupping the back of his neck.

"Keep going, John, keep going. I can take it."

John hesitated, eyes searching Sherlock's to see if the man was lying. He took one of Sherlock's hands in his own and pressed a loving kiss to the knuckles.

"You're..sure? It's OK not to, Sherlock, you don't have to force yourself."

Sherlock nodded without pause. He interlinked his fingers with John's.

"I'm not, I want this. I want to feel you, all of you inside me, John. Please...I've wanted it for so long...and...and I thought...I thought I had lost any chance of it...but now, you're here..."

Sherlock's voice broke and he had to look away before he broke down entirely. Those nights he had spent after coming back to London only to find out that John had fell in love with another. Those cold nights he had spent in the flat all alone, only his memories of the times he had spent with John to keep him company. And even after almost dying...swallowing down his own pain to push John back towards his wife...because that was what he thought John wanted. Those times he had heard John up in his room, crying, torn between forgiving Mary and going back to her or not. And Sherlock...Sherlock just wanted to go up there and take the man into his arms and tell him everything will be alright, because John deserved everything to be OK, but he couldn't. Instead he had played the faithful friend, ready to support whatever decision John made, even if it meant putting his own...feelings on ice. Well, that wouldn't be hard for him, he's been doing it his whole life.

So now, now that John's finally here with him, willing to be with him, Sherlock needed this. He needed John to show him that he wasn't going to go away, like so many others had before. John would be here, beside him, inside him, always. He needed, wanted. Sherlock didn't know when this gaping whole of loneliness had begun to open in his chest, but now the thought of returning once more to the days when he could confidently claim he was 'married to his work' sent physical pangs of agony through him. So however painful it will be, Sherlock will bear it because it won't be nearly as painful as having nothing. To have John inside him, claiming him, having him, Sherlock wanted all of it.

John was unaware of the turmoil going through Sherlock, but he understood that this was something Sherlock desperately wanted. His free hand tipped Sherlock's chin and guided the man to look back at him, their eyes meeting, and John's heart clenched seeing the avalanche of raw emotions running behind them. He leaned forward, pressing their interlinked hands to the bed and he slipped his other hand under Sherlock's hip, pulling him up slightly so that the angle made it easier for him to slide in.

"Keep your eyes on mine, Sherlock..."

Sherlock's fingers gave his hand a slight squeeze in response and John began to push in once more. The younger man had become more relaxed during their small break and now John found it was slightly easier to move. He went slowly, eyes scanning the other's handsome face for any indication that he wanted to stop. Sherlock did his best to keep his eyes open and locked onto John's, he could see that the older man was trying so hard to fight off the haze of lust so that he can focus on Sherlock and make sure the detective was OK. Their linked hands were pressed tight against the mattress and Sherlock was grateful since it allowed him a way to communicate with John without needing words. Panting as the pressure inside him grew, Sherlock reached his other hand down between their bodies and started stroking his own length, his own fingers tugging at the sensitive flesh mercilessly. He whimpered at a particularly harsh jerk, hips instinctively thrusting up into his hand for more friction. The sudden move caused the detective to impale himself fully onto the remainder of John's cock making both of them gasp in surprise.

John held himself still, deathly afraid that Sherlock had gotten hurt, but instead he found the detective's eyes wide open, mouth gaping and chest heaving. He squirmed and squeezed John's hand so tightly John thought he might fracture a bone.

"J..John...again...do that...again.."

Sherlock stuttered even as his eyes went glassy from lust. John pulled out just a bit then snapped his hips forward, pushing himself in fully to the hilt. He couldn't help muttering a curse as the tight heat gripped his entire length and seemed to suck him in. Oh fuck, it was incredible. Sherlock was so unbelievably tight and John felt like everything in the world was melting away, leaving just him and his detective, joined in the most erotic way.

Sherlock keened as the angle allowed John to hit his prostate without hindrance. He felt so amazingly full and as his body got used to the stretch the pain slowly ebbed away. John's rubbing over that bundle of nerves sent liquid fire pulsing through Sherlock and he almost screamed. John, clearly realizing that Sherlock was not in pain anymore, began thrusting in earnest. He pulled out until just the tip of his cock still remained inside Sherlock before sheathing himself back in in one push, making Sherlock thrash on the bed helplessly. The sight alone made John feel like he was going to cum and his hips sped up in response. His thrusts became more and more powerful as his orgasm built until he was practically pounding Sherlock into the mattress. Sherlock's breaths were mixed with gasps and groans, he clung to John's hand desperately, feeling his own climax coil in his stomach each time John plunged into him. He couldn't think, speak, all he could do was feel as John claimed him, possessed every fiber of him. His back arched fully off the bed as the nerves in his body worked overtime, sending signals from one to the other so fast that Sherlock was left breathless. The hand that had been on his cock flung out and gripped the sheets, holding on for dear life as Sherlock felt himself being pushed towards the edge.

John's hand released Sherlock's hips, no longer needed to hold it in place as their coupling became more frantic. His hand replaced Sherlock's, fisting the other man's arousal almost painfully tight. Sherlock yelped at the sudden tightness around his prick, making him thrust up into John's hand before falling back only to impale himself on John's cock. John couldn't help the satisfied smirk as he watched his lover come undone under him. He stretched up and pressed a few sloppy kisses to Sherlock's throat, kissing up to his ear.

"Cum for me, Sherlock, let me see you."

Without warning, John bit down hard on the curve where Sherlock's neck met his shoulder and the younger man screamed as his orgasm washed over him. His vision whited out and all his senses were overthrown leaving only wave after wave of pleasure to wash over him. He didn't know what happened after, nor did he particularly care, only that he had John inside him, warm, loving, protective John, and nothing will change what they've shared now.

Sherlock's orgasm threw John over the edge too as the detective's body suddenly constricted around him so tightly it almost hurt. The man was beautiful, white streams of semen coating his and John's stomach as every muscle in his body tightened, working in overdrive. John wanted to keep watching, but he only managed a few more thrusts before his own climax overtook him and he was dizzy with pleasure. He quickly threw out the hand on Sherlock's cock to catch himself before he fell over, but his body shook with the effort. His length was buried deep inside Sherlock when he felt pulse after pulse of cum being squeezed from it and he groaned at the thought. He stayed in that position as he tried to catch his breath, afraid that even the slightest movement will end up with him collapsing onto Sherlock. His eyes were seeing spots and John thought maybe he was going to pass out from the intensity of their coupling.

The pair stayed without moving except for the rise and fall of their chests as they struggled for air. Slowly, his mind came back online and Sherlock groaned. He could feel the post sex chemicals working their magic on his brain, muddling up his thoughts and giving him a wonderfully fuzzy high. Even so, he felt exhausted and sore, knowing that he was probably not going to be jumping around as much as usual for the next few days. He could still feel John inside him, the organ now having softened , but still enough to make him feel delightfully full. Experimentally he contracted his muscles and wrenched a groan out of John.

"God Sherlock..."

A lazy grin spread over Sherlock's face as he watched John shake his head to try and clear his head. Futile. He'll have to wait for the chemicals to recede before the high wears off. John sat back up gently untangled his and Sherlock's hands, stretching out his aching fingers from having kept them clenched for so long. He carefully pulled out of Sherlock's warmth, leaving the curly haired man slightly sulky at the empty feeling. The older man removed the condom and tossed it with surprisingly accurate aim into the rubbish bin, before flopping on the bed beside Sherlock with a content sigh. The taller man reached out a lanky arm and snatched a handful of tissues from a box on the nightstand, using them to wipe his own cum off his stomach and John's.

"Not more presents from Mycroft I hope."

John teased with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock pouted and threw the dirty tissues at him, which he managed to dodge.

"Shut up."

John chuckled as he rolled onto his side, propping his head up against his hand to peer over at Sherlock. He ran the other hand over the bite mark at the bottom of Sherlock's neck, inspecting to make sure he hadn't broken skin.

"Are you OK? Anywhere hurt?"

Sherlock mentally made a quick inventory of his body.

"No. Sore, but not hurt."

John's hand traced over Sherlock's chest, fingering a few love bites. He frowned when his eyes caught sight of the newly formed bruises on Sherlock's pale thigh from when he had gripped it earlier.

"Are you sure? You're not just saying that are you?"

Sherlock sighed and he turned onto his side too to face John.

"No, Doctor Watson, I assure you I'm not. You're so...careful. I'm not made of glass John."

The doctor met Sherlock's indignant gaze knowingly. Sherlock hated when other's fussed over him, but given how he never cared about his own health somebody had to watch out for the bloody bloke.

"No, you're not. You're just not as invincible as you think either. But now your...'transport' doesn't just belong to you anymore, so you better start taking better care of it, you git."

Sherlock pulled his mouth down in an exaggerated frown.

"Well considering I have my own personal doctor I hardly need to worry, not like you'll let me get away with anything else anyway."

John laughed as he pressed a soft kiss to the snarky mouth.

"Damn right I won't."

Suddenly, Sherlock dropped his gaze and he picked at the bedding, tracing the patterns with his finger. John brushed his fingers under his chin and tilted the man's head back up to meet his eyes.

"Sherlock, what is it? What're you thinking about?"

Sherlock worried his bottom lip, wincing slightly as he disturbed the wound from earlier when he had bit down too hard.

"So...so this is OK, then? I mean...us? It's...it's real? You're not going to...leave...?"

John's heart wrenched at the words. Sherlock looked so vulnerable, unsure. John's almost never seen him like this...almost. And every time he did it seems like it had something to do with him, Sherlock's weak spot, his one pressure point...John Watson. Even after all of this Sherlock still thought perhaps John was going to leave him. A wave of protectiveness swept over John and he reached over, tracing his fingers over Sherlock's cheeks, down those sharp jawlines, over that beautiful throat, before he tangled them into Sherlock's curls at the back of his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. It was light, soft, loving.

"No, you idiot. I'm not leaving, I'm not going anywhere. Not even if Mycroft sends the whole British government to chase me out. You're stuck with me Sherlock Holmes."

The smile that broke over Sherlock's face made John's breathe catch. It lit up his entire face and his gorgeous cobalt eyes practically sparkled. He dove at John, knocking the man flat on his back as the long and pale arms wrapped around him so tightly John had difficulty breathing. Sherlock was practically purring as he pressed butterfly kisses over John's chest, making the older man laugh at how affectionate his lover was being. Who knew the great Sherlock Holmes had this side to him?

Finally, after some giggles and more shared kisses, the two fluffed up the pillows and properly laid down for some sleep. They snuggled under the covers after the lights were turned off, each feeling deliriously happy. Whatever tomorrow brought, whatever the future held, they knew they can face it together. John wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock, noting the man had wriggled himself to press against John's chest, head tucked under the older man's chin. John pressed a kiss against the curls, thanking whatever God or supernatural deity that existed for throwing him into the path of this brilliant maniac.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Always.

* * *

><p><em>Alright, that's really the end this time, haha. Longest smut I've ever written ._. <strong>Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed!<strong>_


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